Parce Que J'ai Péché
by alec1
Summary: Dr. René Galbon has the dubious honour of being Methos' shrink. But he has a past of his own, which is about to threatened both him and his patient.
1. Part 1

Parce Que JÕai Peche 

n This is a novel-length story, part of the Armed Intervention series by Paula Stiles, which can be found at: http://www.geocites.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html

n The story will be posted in three parts. 

n It has been carefully crafted to fit into the Armed Intervention universe; it does NOT stray out of it. If you are reading the entire series, this is an integral part of it and must be read in order to understand the subsequent canon. It fits in after Two Watchers in Search of a Gathering and before Snuff, these stories can be found at the above URL. This story is also available at that site: http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch2.html

n For those of you who speak French, there is nothing I can do about the accents on this site, unfortunately. I know it looks silly without them but Ð tant pis.

n It can also be found here at fanfiction.net under TheSnowLeopard or by title

n This is a Highlander-based series with its own consistent canon, extrapolated from the original, providing insights into that original canon Ð the stuff the writers didnÕt put in!

n Email me at: alec@hfx.eastlink.ca

Disclaimer: No-one is making any money of this, unfortunately Ð maybe one day! 

Rating: R for violence, language and a little bit of non-explicit sex. This is NOT a slash story.

Characters: Methos, Joe, Amy Thomas, Stephen Keane, and original characters, both from the Armed Intervention series and new ones. 

Summary: Dr. Rene Galbon has the dubious honour of being MethosÕshrink. But he has a past of his own and it is about to threaten both him and his patient.

...Parce Que J'ai Peche...

[For I Have Sinned]

By Judith Hill

Part 1

Chapter 1

Paris

Thursday, November 21, 2002

_Ah, mon Dieu_. I should have suggested lunch this afternoon. But I am willing to sit here, a French Buddha - a Buddha who smokes too much - and watch Adam Pierson blow off another therapy session with me. But I am tired and the growling in my stomach is becoming embarrassing. These sessions with my star patient are wearing but we therapists are spread very thin on the ground; the psychotherapeutic care and maintenance of _Homo sapiens immortalis_ makes for an unusual specialty, _n'est-ce pas_? 

I finish my cigarette and stub it out. It keeps my own nerves quiet in these sessions and he does not mind. I suspect he has known the comforts of tobacco himself at various times.

"Could I possibly be boring you, Rene?" he says. He is annoyed. At himself?

I shrug. It is important to appear calm. What I feel does not matter. "I have been known to bore my own therapist on occasion," I tell him. "I am not going anywhere."

"You have a therapist?" I doubt the surprise is genuine. Surely he knows these things.

"_Mais, bien sur_." I give him my best inscrutable smile. I am not that easily distracted. "And we are not talking about me."

He stirs his coffee, just staring into it, his head down. He is off his game today. Which is interesting. He has been stirring it just like that for some time now. 

"I am going to order something to eat," I say. There is no reaction. "You have eaten?" A slight shrug, no more. This is not good. "I will order for both of us, yes?"

I raise my hand toward the waitress, who comes to our table. She has been watching us; I hope it is I she is imagining in her bed. "_Deux de vos 'Campagnards', s'il vous plait, Mademoiselle_." She looks wistfully at the top of Adam's head, probably wishing he would notice her, and leaves. Ah... _on perd la main_ - you are losing your touch, Rene. And he has a little more hair than you do, _non_?

"You ordered me goat cheese?" he says without looking up.

I ignore him and stretch out my legs, fold my hands over my belly and wait him out. I am worried about him. We are not that far along in the therapy. First there is a crisis, then the patient recovers, then there is a rest from the storm, the patient feels better... The crisis is over but the problem? Ah, but the problem is still there, you see; the behaviour that landed the patient into the crisis in the first place is still intact and a relapse is inevitable. It is... tricky. The patient feels that he no longer needs to warm a chair in your presence. And I think we are at this point, _non_? I must be careful or this is where I shall lose him.

I sip my coffee and give him time to say something on his own but he says nothing. It is time to take the initiative. "Would you like to tell me what you are thinking about while we are waiting?"

He sighs and sits back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Rene. Can we just eat and call it a day?"

"Of course. We are just friends today, _hein_? Enjoying a meal together. There is always another day, _non_? How is Silas?"

This gets a bit more of a response. "He's good." Even a little smile. "Yeah, he's good."

"I am glad to hear it. And the bookshop?"

"Um... it's fine." I can see he doesn't wish to pursue this. Perhaps he is hallucinating again. I am not sure he would tell me if he were. I wait, but nothing. 

"I go to Reims tomorrow," I say. "I give you a rest until Monday. I return Saturday afternoon but I will leave you my number there. All right?"

He chuckles. "You old dog, Rene. Got a little piece on the side up there, have you?"

I shrug. "I don't much care for the celibate life, Adam. You have known me too long not to know that. But marriage? Well... This is France, _mon ami_. Such things are not a problem, you know?" And I have not seen Mathilde for too long.

He goes back to stirring his cold coffee absently. "You think you can trust me not to murder my friends in their beds?"

A little attack, I see. Also a little depression. A weekend away would do us both some good. Perhaps if he feels I am giving him a little room... "You are a cynic today. I would be happier if you were in care, yes. But there must be a little trust or there will be no progress. You don't agree?"

The waitress comes with our baguettes. It is just as well we are speaking English; she would be a little shocked. She puts Adam's plate in front of him but he doesn't even look at her. She gives me mine with a smile. I glance at her pretty breasts before smiling back. _Plus tard, peut-etre._ One never knows one's luck.

"Are you asking me to trust you, Rene? We've been round that corner already."

"Always, my friend. You are very distant today. Something has happened, yes?"

He pokes at the baguette and shakes his head. "I'm just tired."

"I can give you a prescription for something to help you sleep."

"Maybe. Let me think about it."

It is a concession but it worries me. Where is the fight? Always he fights me on these things. On Monday, his answer will be the same as usual: no drugs. This flat affect is not like him. He is depressed, of course, but this is a little more. He is very tired; we are all tired - me, Joseph Dawson, Stephen Keane. All very weary. "Adam. Go home and rest. You do not eat properly either, I think. Take that with you."

He nods and stands up. It is what he wants; he is glad I understand. I call the waitress and ask her to wrap up the baguette. He tosses a ten-euro note on the table and I do not object; he is being gracious. Perhaps he regrets the failure of the session. 

He watches the waitress; he is a little agitated and I can see that he is anxious to go.

"Adam. Eventually you will have to talk about what is on your mind or we shall get nowhere. I cannot always be walking on eggshells around you, always worrying that I might touch on a subject that upsets you. I have to take my cue from you; at some point you have to take responsibility for your own therapy, for your own recovery. Am I making myself understood?"

"Yeah, get off my back, Rene." 

I sigh. Sometimes he can be a spoiled child. "Where would you like to meet on Monday?" I ask him.

He pulls his old raincoat off the back of the chair and puts it on. He doesn't look at me and I wonder what he's hiding. "This is okay with me. Three o'clock?"

"_D'accord._"

The waitress hands him the baguette in a paper bag and he just turns away and leaves without saying a word. Perhaps it is a mistake to go to Reims this weekend. But I think this every weekend and every weekend I stay in Paris and, lately, everything is fine. I ask the waitress for a cognac and take my notebook out of my knapsack. Adam is always my last patient for the day and he does not like it if I take notes. What can I do? I make them when he has left.

I take out my cigarettes and light one. I should give them up; unlike my patients, I will not live forever. I jot down the few thoughts I have. Not that many; it lasted perhaps only twenty minutes, a very short session. Yes, we are all very weary. I think a little rest for both of us would be very good. 

When that is done, I enjoy my lunch, then relax with the brandy and a cigarette. My own sleep has not been good. Perhaps tonight... 

It has been... what?... five weeks? It feels like five months. The crisis was so severe in Methos' case. Ah, but I should not even think that name. If I do, one day I will slip and say it. And that will be a disaster. Sean met Adam after Adam's friend, Mira, came to Sean for help. Mira had been part of the clean up crew in Beirut and other nasty places and was suffering from a stress disorder. After Sean's death, I opened Adam's file, since I was treating him even then although it was not official, just talk over a beer; it was all there. It was one hell of a shock. And a lot of things made sense. In Adam's case, then, the breakdown was severe. Once I knew that Adam was Methos, I did a little research. What I found supports a pet theory of mine; I believe that Immortals suffer cycles of breakdown and well-being. If they survive these crises and recover their senses, they become quiet - quiescent - for a long period. After this, their renewed activity, particularly if it involves participation in the Game, brings on another crisis. It seems to be inevitable. One assumes, of course, that they still have their heads. And this one of Adam's has been coming for some time; it will be some time yet before he is out of danger. Another acute episode is easily within reach and could come at any time. I have to be very watchful. He, of course, resists me at every turn.

I used to be... _mon Dieu,_ what I used to be. It can never be undone; so many regrets. When I am weary, they return to haunt me. What I do for Adam, I do for my own soul; it is my penance to know I caused him even more suffering. But I must not think of this; it will not help him.

I used to be convinced that the Watcher oath was right; now I cannot believe that I was so foolish. As a psychiatrist, I am permitted by the Council to 'interfere' in the affairs of Immortals with impunity. It is absurd. Even so much recognition on their part is interference; they are hypocrites. When an Immortal speaks to you out of his pain, out of the agony of his existence, how is it possible to remain unmoved? Merely to observe and not interfere? This is wrong. They are so alone. _Ils sont profondement seuls_... profoundly alone. We Mortals cannot comprehend it, this - _cet anonymat monstrueux _- this monstrous anonymity. The Watchers must change; of this, too, I am convinced. The world has changed beyond recognition. No longer can Immortals escape our incessant Watching and we have become obsessed with it. Better by far to be their friends, to serve them and to protect these strange creatures, these special children of humanity.

Adam believes I think him to be a new Immortal who met his first death while Duncan MacLeod thought himself to be some sort of Avatar at war with the ancient demon, Ahriman, a very dangerous delusion and one which cost his student his life. MacLeod's skill as a fighter makes him a very dangerous man and his profound, narcissistic belief in himself to be morally superior and above the law has led him to commit murder, even of Mortals. His Watcher recorded episodes which are clearly psychotic, possibly paranoid schizophrenic, certainly sociopathic. Over seventy kills in six years. And this after a period of quiet. But he is not my patient. And we will not interfere to offer him our help before it explodes into madness; we prefer to let them suffer, it would seem, and that is cruel. When that happens, I plan to be somewhere safe. Adam might not be so lucky.

Meanwhile, Adam plays an old game with me; he pretends that he is Adam Pierson and I must permit it. And he is not pretending. He _is_ Adam Pierson; Adam Pierson has his own thoughts and feelings, his own behaviour patterns, is a fully developed personality in his own right. Adam Pierson is safe. I must respect this; not to do so would be a serious error. We all have roles that we play; our lives do not usually depend on it. He tells me only what Adam Pierson would know; it will serve for the moment but it limits us both. One day, he will trust me enough. Until then... 

Why should he trust? We all betray him, we Mortals: we die. He loves a woman, takes her to him, trusts... and she dies. Death is betrayal. That it is not intended matters not at all. Because he is a good man, his instinct is to trust, an instinct which could be fatal; I see him fight this instinct with Joseph. Joseph is not a young man; he will live perhaps two decades more. I am the same age; I already feel my own death in my bones.

I finish the brandy, tuck my notes away, pay the cashier, shoulder my knapsack and leave. The cafe is a little place on the rue Poissonniere, near the little park... I forget the name. As I pass it, the pigeons fly up toward the apartments that surround it and I catch a glimpse of a man who is looking my way. He seems startled and turns away quickly so that I can no longer see his face. Something about him is familiar but I cannot place it. In any case, he is gone now. I go down the Metro and catch the train to go home. It is raining a little when I come up out of the station at Porte de Vincennes. I buy some croissants at the bakery for my breakfast and some flowers at the shop on the corner. Madame Garneau, the florist, tells me I look tired. But she tells me this every day just to make conversation. Perhaps she has an unmarried daughter she wishes to introduce to me. I tell a few lies, smile sweetly and escape.

I cross the main street to the wine shop. He has a Bordeaux I am fond of and I buy two bottles. As I am crossing the street back to the post office, I have the feeling that I am being watched. I look around but a car brakes to avoid me and my attention is drawn away. It is more likely that my nerves are on edge and I am imagining things. There is no-one there in any case. My little apartment is only a block up from the post office on the rue Montera but I am wet by the time I get there. My neighbour, Marie, arrives home from work at the same time and uses her key to let us both in, which saves me dropping my parcels. She asks about her cat, Mazout. She asks me because Mazout lives in my place when she can get in through the bathroom window across the roof. I used to shoo her out but she sat on the roof and cried; I gave up. Now I just feed her. It is easier.

I put my parcels in the tiny kitchen and the flowers in the blue vase. I like it very much, something I found in the _M__arche aux Puces_ one Saturday. There is not much here that is mine; the hospital is not that generous with its Paris accommodations but Paris is expensive and I am grateful not to have to live in a hotel while I am here. I throw my clothes in the laundry basket and take a shower, with Mazout eyeing me from the windowsill. I curse at her when she knocks my glasses off the back of the toilet: "_Mazout! Putain de chat! Rentre chez-toi!_" 

I dress in a robe and pour some wine and light a cigarette. The evening news is depressing, as usual, and I turn it off, preferring to read. I should work on my notes, but I am too tired. I rouse myself enough to make some soup and eat it but I am not very hungry and I do not enjoy it. Then I pour some more wine and settle in to read for the evening. I am just nodding off when my telephone rings. Swearing, I answer it.

"Galbon."

"Doctor. David Gabrieli here. How are you?" _Merde!_ "Am I disturbing you?"

I rub a hand over my face and sit up. I do not need this. "I'm sorry. I was just asleep."

"Ah, then I apologize. Doctor, I'm just getting around to paying a call on each of my senior staff. I like to get to know them on a personal basis. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You're just about the last one on my list. I wonder if we could get together."

"I am going to Reims in the morning but I could come to Headquarters on Monday."

"I'd like to come this evening, if I may. I'm having dinner with a friend at Chez Clement on the Boulevard des Capucines. I'm not that far away. I'll be there in about an hour. "

He leaves me no option. "Of course."

"Fine. Looking forward to it."

I hang up. Noisily. Mazout comes to investigate. "_Rentre chez-toi_, Mazout! Go home!" She ignores me. 

Swearing, I go into the bathroom and take some aspirin for the headache that has just come out of nowhere. Then I shave around my beard. I have not yet met this man who is now my superior, though I know him by reputation, and I already dislike him. It is a clever strategy, of course. He has me at a disadvantage and no doubt he will press it. I put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then I make some coffee. I am going to need to be awake.

I tidy the place and pour some coffee. While I wait, I have a cigarette and try to remember what I know of this man, which is not very much, mostly gossip. If I had not been so preoccupied, I would probably have done some research. You damned fool, Rene. He will have found out as much about me as he can. I have been very careful but that is not always enough. And he almost certainly has an agenda. They always do. I know they call him_ Le Nettoyeur_ - 'The Cleaner'. There are rumours... There are always rumours. His predecessor had difficulties with his monogamous obligations, shall we say? I remember, with a certain fondness, a young lady from the records section who delighted in whispering the latest details of M. Anders' affair with the foolish Mlle Laurence even as our own little indiscretion was in danger of becoming distressingly obvious - ah, such a light touch, that one. And while what my patients tell me is safe with me, I cannot forget at will; I still know. And Mme Anders - the _formidable_ Colette - was much too angry to remain discreet. Indiscretions all round. It was quite amusing. 

That was not all of it, of course. The European Region was becoming quite corrupt. And into this mess rode David Gabrieli, knight in shining armour, righter of wrongs, tilter at windmills. The saints preserve us from the incorruptible ones! And he made no secret of his hatred of the Hunters, for all he was quite unable to destroy them. He did, however, succeed in driving them underground but not before there was an attempt on his life. I knew nothing of that; I believe that I was not supposed to know. Which tells me who my enemies are.

David Gabrieli is a traditionalist; he believes in the Watcher oath to the last fibre of his being. He believes that adherence to that damnable oath will set us all on the path to righteousness. 

The buzzer for my door sounds. He is punctual, but then, he is American. Americans place great store in punctuality; personally, I find it distressing - except in my patients, of course. I press the button to let him in and open my door. He comes up the staircase smiling broadly, his white teeth prominent in his handsome black face. As he greets me, his handshake is firm and strong. He is taller than I expected; he is as big as I and ten years younger.

"I'm glad to finally meet you, Dr. Galbon." I don't detect any condescension in him; the sentiment appears to be genuine.

I usher him inside. He puts his gloves in his pocket and I take his coat, an expensive dark wool overcoat, very classic, one I could never afford. But then, that is not my taste. He settles himself into my one decent armchair, as is his right. 

"I shall have to see to it that there is an anonymous donation to that hospital of yours with a suggestion that it be used for improving temporary accommodations," he remarks. He is relaxed, very assured. I wish I felt the same. "Our specialists deserve the best or we risk losing them back to the field."

"I am still in the field, technically, Monsieur."

"Of course."

"I have some fresh coffee. Would you care for some?"

He smiled pleasantly. "I do believe I will have some. It smells wonderful. Thank you."

While I pour coffee for us, he gets up and goes to my bookshelf. I see that he is interested in my small volume of Voltaire's 'Candide'. He turns the pages, pauses to read a little and laughs.

"Monsieur Voltaire certainly didn't like the Germans much, did he?" he says.

I bring the tray into the living room and place it on the small table beside the armchair. "No, Monsieur. He did not."

He comes back to the chair, hitches his trousers and sits down. "I find him very amusing." He crosses his legs comfortably and picks up the cup nearest to him. His movements are graceful for a big man.

"And how do you find working at the hospital?"

I pick up my own cup and sit down in the other chair. "I am satisfied."

"You find it a challenge to treat Immortals, do you, Doctor?"

I nod and smile politely. Mazout saves me the trouble of thinking of something to say by jumping into Gabrieli's lap. "Mazout! _Barre-toi! Degage_!"

I put my cup down and rescue Gabrieli from the furry menace. I pick up Mazout, take her to the bathroom, put her out on the roof and close the window. She sits there, pawing the glass and mewing. Before going back into the living room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; my face is tense and drawn, my eyes dark with fatigue. I splash a little water in my face and take a moment to compose myself. I cannot afford to betray any nervousness. He is not a witchhunter but he knows he has enemies; I do not want him to think that I may be one.

"I apologize," I say as I sit back down.

"It's all right," he says, smiling. "I like cats. We were talking about the hospital."

He is not going to let me off the hook, I see. "Yes, it is, as you say, a challenge."

He smiles and takes a sip of coffee, then nods toward me. "This is very good."

"Thank you."

"I see you're a smoker. I have no objections if you'd like to indulge."

He is trying to put me at ease; I find it a little disturbing that he feels he needs to do that. "Thank you, but I prefer not to."

"As you wish." He finishes his coffee and puts the cup down. "You don't say very much, Dr. Galbon."

"It is an occupational hazard, Monsieur."

He regards me for a few seconds before replying. "I'm sure it is." He crosses his legs, folds his hands over his stomach and settles back, a relaxed posture with no menace in it. He is a shrewd man; nothing he does is accidental. "I won't beat about the bush, Doctor. I came here with the intention of asking about your patient, Adam Pierson."

"May I ask how you know that Adam is my patient?"

He purses his lips. "No, you may not."

"I see. What I hear from Adam is privileged information. I am concerned that you would ask me to reveal it."

"Have I asked you to reveal anything?"

He has me there. It was a slip on my part. "He wa a Watcher and still has ties to them; it is common knowledge that he is suffering from stress." I shrug. "It is my job to treat Watchers suffering from stress. Anything at all beyond that..."

"Tell me. If you were convinced that it was in Adam's best interests - and I am speaking in hypothetical terms - to pass along information, to myself alone, of course, would you do that?"

I do not even hesitate. "No, I would not. My first obligation is always to my patient. If he cannot trust me to keep his secrets, he will terminate the association, and he will be right to do so. The therapy cannot proceed without his trust."

"And if I ordered you to report to me, on the understanding that confidentiality would be respected?"

I shake my head. "No."

He looks at me steadily. It is a test. "You can't be faulted for your dedication, Doctor, but your oath of loyalty is to the Watcher organization. To me."

I sigh and brush the air with my hand. "There can be only one answer, Monsieur Gabrieli. My first loyalty is to my patient. I must be allowed this freedom or I become unable to do my job. And it is my patients who will suffer. I cannot allow it."

He smiles. "Then let's not speak of it further. I understand you were here when Darius was murdered by Hunters."

_Oh, mon Dieu_! 'Out of the frying pan...' "Yes, I was here."

"You were friends." It was a statement. 

As a monk, Darius' movements were hardly invisible. And with James Horton himself as his Watcher after Ian Bancroft was assigned elsewhere - at Horton's insistence, perhaps? - the details of who came and who went would be meticulously recorded. And especially myself; Horton was no friend of mine. Denial would be absurd.

"Yes, we were friends."

"I'm going to lay my cards on the table, Doctor. I'm sure you're aware of how I feel about the tragedy that the Hunters brought. The Watcher organization has suffered terribly from their ravages. I intend to prevent anything like that ever happening again."

"And how does this concern my friendship with Darius?"

He shifts in his chair. I suspect this is something he does when he is warming to his subject. Which means that this is very personal for him. I find myself wondering why he wishes to show me this much of himself. And the answer to that is, of course, that he expects something in return. 

"I have spent a good deal of time looking over the records that were kept of those events," he says, "the savage killings, the revenge killings by Immortals such as Jacob Galati. I don't believe it ended with the death of James Horton. My reading has lead me to an interesting conclusion: the death of the Immortal Darius was pivotal. It was the first time the Hunters shed secrecy and began to kill openly and the murder was committed on Holy Ground. It sent a clear message: war on Immortals with no sanctuary anywhere. It was a black day for us." 

I listen to this with interest. He would not speak to me this way if he thought I was ever involved with the Hunters. This far he trusts me; how much farther? It is a good deal farther than I trust him. He is a man of integrity, but integrity is a two-edged sword. If he believes me to be innocent, he will defend me; if he suspects otherwise, he will condemn me with equal energy. And no-one is without sin. I have always found it foolish to trust men of integrity.

I shrug. Time to toss him a little bone. "You are telling me things that I already know. How may I be of help?"

He beams. I have said the right thing. "I'd like you to tell me what you know of Darius, whether he revealed anything to you in private - as a friend - which would have eluded the notice of his Watcher."

"After Monsieur Bancroft, that Watcher was James Horton, the man who murdered him. His reports are unlikely to be trustworthy,"

Gabrieli's mouth curves into a smile; he is indulging me. "Ah, but that's a very funny thing about our Mr. Horton. He was a fanatic and fanatics are obsessive. For whatever reason, his notes on Darius are extremely detailed and those details have never been contradicted when the facts were compared with other sources. I believe we are safe in assuming that those details which can't be corroborated are very likely to be accurate. Interesting, don't you think?"

"And one of those details was the frequency of my own visits, no doubt?"

"No doubt."

"I see. But Darius never told me anything of himself, and certainly not of his life as an Immortal. He believed me to be no more than a parishioner; he was my spiritual advisor. We spoke of matters of the soul. My soul."

"You're a religious man, are you, Dr. Galbon? I thought that was unusual for psychiatrists."

I pick up my cigarettes and take one out. Perhaps I will indulge in it after all. "But we French psychiatrists are also Catholics, Monsieur." I shrug and pull out my lighter. "I believe my patients have souls; I treat those souls. But I do not preach to them. It merely gives me a perspective." I light the cigarette, which allows me to look away from my visitor. He waits politely. When I look at him again, he seems thoughtful. "And being a Catholic is a way of life; it has very little to do with being religious."

He nods slowly. "Then Darius was your Confessor?"

"We all need someone to forgive us our sins, Monsieur, even if God cannot."

"What you are telling me is that anything that passed between you and Darius is also privileged information."

I just shrug and smoke the cigarette. And wonder if I have made an enemy.

He concludes our meeting with a few polite remarks; I am equally polite. When he is gone, I let Mazout back in and she sits on my lap while I finish the bottle of wine. 

This night, I sleep badly again.

Chapter 2

Paris

Friday, November 22, 10:00 a.m.

The Gare de l'Est is unusually crowded. The train to Reims is on time, leaving from Platform 18 at 10:38, the ticket seller tells me. I buy a return ticket and go to the cafe for coffee and a croissant before it is time to board. 

As the waiter brings me my coffee, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket. I don't know him but I think I have seen him before. Then I remember; it is the man I saw in the park on the rue Poissonniere - or, at least, I think it is the same man. It is the clothing I recognize, really. He is not very tall but very solid, wearing shabby clothing, dirty boots, unshaven and I think again that perhaps I do know him. As I watch, he asks a customer for a handout, then looks in my direction. He looks away quickly and walks the other way, goes through the doors onto the concourse. He is in a hurry. I am not paranoid, but I am prudent and I do not believe in coincidence. Something is going on. There is nothing I can do about it now but I will be watching my back. 

I buy a _Campagnard_ - I admit I am addicted to them - at the kiosk for four euros and go to Platform 18 to wait. The train is just pulling in. When the passengers have all passed through the gate, I walk along the platform and choose a carriage. I settle myself into a compartment but I don't have it to myself for very long. Two other passengers, a man and a woman, make themselves comfortable. We are all strangers; the trip will be quiet. In a few minutes, the train begins to move. An hour and a half to myself. I have been looking forward to this all week.

I wait until we are beyond the outskirts of Paris to unwrap my sandwich. I brought a book to read but I have been unable to concentrate. I open a small bottle of wine and drink from it; it is a small vice, non? When I see the first of the champagne vineyards passing, I relax. Paris leaves me exhausted. I love Paris but I cannot be there without my work taking up every waking moment, it seems; it takes the sight of the vineyards, bare as they are at this time of year, to convince me that I have left that work behind. And then I worry. How will Adam be without me at the other end of the telephone? Perhaps I should not have told him. _Tais-toi_, Rene. Leave it alone. Joseph and Stephen have managed this far.

Surely there are other things I could be thinking about? Nikki will be waiting for me at the station with Mathilde. I smile at the thought. Veronique is not so young any more; she has been my housekeeper and confidante for ten years now. What would I have done without her? Nikki. Mathilde called her that first. We both liked it. 

I am so lucky to have them both. There was another time when I was also very lucky, if that is what it could be called. It could easily have gone so very wrong; it almost did. I have no idea why this comes to mind now, when I wanted a quiet train ride. Perhaps when I have been to see Pere Jean at the Abbey, my mind will be quiet again. He expects me and I look forward to our little visits. I tried to warn Darius; Sean always tried to tell me that his death was not my fault, that Horton and his followers would have murdered him anyway, simply for what he was and not for anything I may have told him, but how can it not be? It has been on my mind since Gabrieli mentioned it; I wish he had not. I will carry so many ugly things to my grave.

How can we be so foolish when we are young? And I was not all that young. Just very foolish. Perhaps if I had known my father... He was a good man, my mother always told me. A good man who died much too young. What does a four-year-old know of war in a far corner of the world? L'Indochine Francaise - French Indo-China... just words. I knew only that he was gone and would not come back and I do not remember him. My mother died with him, it seemed to me, her soul already with him in the next world, and I left alone in this. When she took her own life, no-one was really surprised. Except me. Perhaps this is why I valued Adam's friendship back then; both orphans, or so I thought him. And so he is, though it is hardly the same thing. He is orphaned from far more than his parents; I have my country, my world, my Mathilde. When I heard that he had fallen in love, I was very happy for him. And then I heard... I will do what I can for him. I owe him this much; I owe them all this much.

I watch the countryside go by, watch the shadows on the fields, think about home. It has been too long. I take off my glasses and put them in their case so that I will not be tempted to read. The train is so smooth on the rails, the scene so pleasant that I drift off to sleep. It is what I need.

When the train slows down, I am already awake. I tidy myself up, put my glasses and my jacket on and pick up my bag and my knapsack. I watch through the window as the train pulls in. There they are! Bless them both. I have missed them. 

They see me through the window and walk toward where the carriage will stop. As I step down to the platform, Mathilde comes running toward me. 

"Papa! Papa!" 

It is music to my ears. I drop my bags on the platform and sweep her up into my arms, my beautiful, brown-haired daughter. How I love you!

We embrace each other as Nikki joins us.

"It's good to see you," Nikki says. I kiss Mathilde and set her down, and kiss Nikki on both cheeks.

"You are looking very well," I tell Nikki. And she does. She has always taken great care of herself. She is a wonderful mother to Mathilde. 

Mathilde is getting tall now that she is ten. Slender, like her grandmother. She takes my hand tightly. "I missed you, Papa. Nikki says you have a lot of work to do and that's why you have to stay in Paris."

"_Oui, ma grande._ A lot of work, people who need me. But I am here now. We shall go wherever you want to go, just you and me, and then we shall dress up and go to dinner. How is that?"

"I have a new dress, Papa. May I wear it?"

"But of course. I want to see you in it."

I see her grandmother in her pretty face and take her head in my hands, kiss her hair. She holds me tightly. Nikki looks on at us, smiling, happy.

As am I, Nikki; as am I.

We walk out of the station, Nikki leading the way. Mathilde walks with me, holding my hand tightly. You are growing so fast, my dear child. Why your mother would have neither of us, I cannot say, but we have each other. Darius told me it was a sin not to be married to her but how can it have been so wrong if I have you? And what was one more sin after so many much worse ones? For once in my life, it would seem, I have done something right. 

As we walk through the station to the driveway and the street, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket, following at a distance. It is the same man from the station and from the park. If he has gone to the trouble of catching the train, he is not a thief. He means to speak to me and he is willing to wait until the time is right to do so. I prefer to choose the time myself.

I tell Nikki to take Mathilde home and say that I will follow shortly. She looks at me in alarm; she sees the worried look on my face, no doubt. She knows my work is dangerous; I have never hidden that from her. It is only a short walk to rue Lesage, perhaps fifteen minutes. There is an English pub on the way; I am sure my would-be companion will find that amenable, better than the open street. Especially since I believe I know who he is. He once tried to kill me; I doubt he will try now.

I kiss Mathilde. "Mati, I want you to go home with Nikki and have some lunch. I have seen a patient of mine over there who wishes to speak to me. I will be along shortly and we will go out. Perhaps downtown, yes?"

She tugs on my hand "No, Papa. Come with us. Please!"

"Mathilde. The man is ill and needs me to help him. You want me to help him, _non_?"

She nods but her head is cast down. "You won't be long?"

"No, no. You and I will spend the afternoon together."

Nikki takes my bag from me. It is not heavy, just a few overnight things. I keep the knapsack with me out of habit. "It will be all right," I tell her. Then I smile and kiss her cheek. 

"Be careful, Rene," she whispers. I nod and pat her arm. Life is a little harder when one is loved.

I watch as they walk to the street and round the corner. I look behind me. The man is waiting in the shadows. His name is Eddie Brill, an American. He is a Watcher, like myself. Only not at all like myself. At least, not any more. I was allowed to remove my tattoo many years ago since I work openly with Immortals; he has always worn his most proudly. We were never friends and now I suspect he despises me. I walk toward him but he stays in the shadows; he is dirty and furtive. He is on the run, most likely. It is a bad sign. I am not in the least happy to see him; I would be very happy if I never saw him again. 

"Rene Galbon," he says. There is a tone of disgust in his voice. I am not his favourite Frenchman. "_Doctor _Galbon, I should say. You always were so fucking high and mighty."

"What do you want, Eddie?" 

He hugs his jacket around him. He is cold. He is not what he seems, not this unkempt beggar, far from it, but even I did not recognize him. I will play his game; it is safest for both of us.

"A cigarette for starters," he says. "You got one?"

I take the cigarette packet out of my inside pocket and give him one. Then I take one for myself. I light them both. I take a drag on it while I regard him closely. He is frightened; frightened men are dangerous. Especially frightened killers. "What do you want?"

"You got a one-track mind, you know that?'

"I don't want to talk here. If you have something to say, we can go to the English pub. It's not far."

He nods. "Oh, yeah. I got a lot to say. I got your ass in my pocket."

I turn and walk back out of the station. He can follow me as he wishes. I wonder why he is so bold and I do not like the answer. He has something he believes will keep him safe from me - and that can only be one thing. I hear him trotting along behind me, playing the part. I slow to let him catch up but I don't look at him; I would rather he not see my anger. It has been nine years since that night. Oh, I have seen him since then but he has always stayed away from me; he knows I would kill him if I got the chance. I still may kill him; I may have no choice. 

"You got a kid," he says. "Pretty. Looks like you. Bet you haven't told the Council about her."

It is a threat; Eddie enjoys threatening people, like a cat toying with a mouse. But I am no mouse. I say nothing; it would only provoke him. When we come within sight of the Roman arch with its circle of tricolors he is surprised, asks me to my back if it is Roman, which tells me he has never been to Reims; everyone who has been to Reims knows about its Roman arch. It means that he does not know where Mathilde and Nikki are going. I can see them up ahead. Once past the arch, I lead him across the street and we lose sight of them. 

The King's Arms English Pub is a couple of streets more. I flick my cigarette butt into the gutter and go in ahead of him. I head for a table at the back and slide in behind it. He is right behind me. He pulls out the chair opposite, turns it so that he can see the door and sits down. Yes, he is most certainly on the run and equally certainly it is from Gabrieli's men. If they have followed him, I will be called to explain this and that prospect is one I do not relish. I wait for him to speak.

"You having a beer?" he asks.

"No."

"Right down to business. You can buy me a burger." His manner is insulting. No doubt he sees it as part of the role he is playing for someone's benefit. 

The waiter comes and I ask him in English to bring a hamburger for 'my friend'.

"I'll have a Coors with that," Eddie says, exaggerating his accent.

"I'm sorry," the waiter says. "We don't carry American beer."

"Well, bring me a lager then," he says in disgust.

"English or German?" the waiter says.

"Whatever! Just bring me a goddamn beer."

The waiter turns to me, shaking his head. "And you, sir?"

"Black coffee with a little milk."

The waiter leaves. Eddie gives the finger to his back. He was never so ill-mannered; I can only assume it is deliberate. Or perhaps he is buckling under the strain. Being hunted will do that to a man, even a good man, and Eddie Brill was never that.

"If you intend to stay unnoticed," I tell him, "perhaps you should mind your manners. Waiters do not forget so easily as you might think."

"Yeah, well, it's been a little tense lately."

He does not take his eyes off the door, although he is probably watching the movements of the waiter as well. It is what I would do. For my part, I watch him. When he is sure he is not being watched, he drops the pretense and I see the old Eddie Brill, ruthless, intelligent, the self-righteous fanatic.

"You are going to hide me, Dr. Galbon," he says. I notice that he does not use my first name. That tells me precisely where I stand; he is desperate and he does not need my good will - or my respect. He has something else.

"And just why should I do this?"

"I think you know."

"Why don't you enlighten me?'

"I had a really interesting chat with Gabrieli. Seems someone got talkative."

I say nothing. Eddie was never one to be discreet, a common failing among fanatics. Perhaps this was inevitable. My chest tightens and I am sickened; I have dreaded this day for a long time. I light another cigarette to calm my nerves.

"They take me, you're going down with me," he says.

"Are you going to tell me why I should not kill you?" I say quietly.

He smiles and looks me in the face. "That's a sweet little girl you have." It is not a threat; that would be foolish and whatever Eddie Brill may be, he is not a fool. He does not need to threaten me this way. "You'd be risking a tribunal. You don't want to make that pretty little thing an orphan. And you're off your home turf here, Doc; you don't want trouble with the local authorities."

He is right, of course. And now it is unlikely he will oblige me by returning to Paris. 

"Nor do you," I say.

"No, nor do I. I see we understand each other."

He looks away again as the waiter comes with my coffee and the beer. We sit silently until he leaves. He drinks some of his beer; I stir the milk into my coffee and smoke. _Mon Dieu_, what have I done? 

I wait for him to tell me what I already know. It could be many things, now that I consider it. Has he discovered who Adam is? Is that what this is all about? But somehow I doubt that. _Mais, je ne peux pas en etre sur_ - I cannot be sure. He saw me on the rue Poissonniere; possibly he saw Adam come out of the cafe but it is common knowledge that I treat Watchers suffering from stress and depression. He must know that I do not have an office in Paris. No, that is probably not it. Perhaps he has nothing at all. He is saying nothing, leaving me to speculate, to become nervous and incautious. In a few minutes, the waiter brings his hamburger and he eats it without excusing himself. I finish the cigarette and stub it out. Then I drink my coffee and watch him.

When he has finished his hamburger, he drinks some more of the beer and wipes his face and hands on the napkin before he looks up at me. There is a hardness to his eyes. He pushes his plate away and glances toward the door. He is nervous but he hides it well; it will make him incautious and that will be disastrous for both of us. This is not the best place after all. It occurs to me that I, also, do not wish our conversation to be overheard. I make a decision, one I hope I will not regret.

"Let's not talk here," I tell him. "I know a place."

He nods and we both stand. We walk back toward the door, he playing the role of beggar again, hugging his coat to him, shuffling a little, his head down. I pay the cashier and we leave. Outside, I find myself looking about me; his paranoia is infectious. When a taxi stops for us, I tell the driver to take us to the Abbaye de Saint Remy. We say nothing to each other during the short ride. 

When we arrive, I ring the bell at the front gate. While we wait, Eddie looks around him. I see that he is impressed by the old architecture, by the statue of St. Remy baptizing Clovis, the tidy little garden.

"You brought me to Holy Ground?" He laughs. "Nice little irony, Doc."

When Frere Andre, the gate porter, comes, he recognizes me and lets us in. Once inside, I ask for Pere Jean, who comes within minutes. He is a small man who seems to disappear inside his habit. If he is disturbed by this intrusion, he is gracious enough not to show it. He does not speak English, but Eddie speaks passable French. I see no reason to believe that he does not understand me when I ask Pere Jean if we could speak with him privately. As we go into the parlour to talk, I tell the good Father that I must ask a favour of him. He merely nods; he will not ask why I must do this. When I come to him for confession in the morning, I will tell him then. I thank God there is someone I can tell or it would tear me apart.

In the austere parlour, Pere Jean indicates two chairs and occupies a third. He is a quiet man, accustomed to silence by years of contemplation. He waits for me to begin. 

"Mon Pere, I ask for asylum for my friend here. Can this be arranged?"

"Asylum is no longer within out power, Rene; the civil authorities no longer recognize it. Surely you know this. However, we are always willing to offer a temporary home to those in distress."

I notice the careful choice of words. He will not ask me just why my 'friend' should be 'in distress'. And I am quite sure he realizes that this man is no friend of mine. I glance at Eddie, who has understood, I think. He nods without speaking.

"Merci, Mon Pere," I say. It annoys me that Eddie has not said this for himself. 

Pere Jean stands. "I will arrange it now, if you wish to wait here?"

Eddie finally decides to speak. "Merci, Mon Pere."

When Pere Jean has left, Eddie gives a little snickering laugh. He thinks me a fool, I suspect. I offer him a cigarette and he takes it. I take one for myself and light them both. Pere Jean knows I smoke and there is always an ashtray for visitors. 

"Smart move, Doc," he says. He sits back in the chair and takes a drag from the cigarette. Somehow, it is an obscene gesture but I cannot say why it should strike me this way. "I wouldn't have thought of this, but then, I'm a Baptist boy. But I guess I can handle it."

"They will not expect you to attend mass or observe the hours. You must keep to yourself, follow their rules, clean up after yourself. Do you understand?"

His face darkens. Now that he is safe, he feels free to show me his hatred. "The question is, do _you _understand, Doctor Galbon?"

He is gloating and I will not respond to that. I have done what he wants; let him have his little moment.

"You need rid of me," he says. "You can't kill me and you can't go to Gabrieli about me because I know what you are. I'm just going to let you figure out how you're going to get me out of Europe."

I am weary; I have carried this burden for many years now. While there was only myself to consider, it was so very different. I might even have given myself up to the Watcher Council and faced my punishment; after all, there are many ways to commit suicide. But now... Now there is Mathilde and Nikki... and Adam. Yes, even he. 

"Gabrieli will believe what I tell him," I say. I am bluffing, of course. I have no idea what David Gabrieli will believe.

"And he's gonna love what I have to show him." He is grinning at me, humiliating me. This is his revenge. "When Horton sent me to take you out, you should have gone down then. The guy you killed was my best friend. I swore I'd get you one day, you son of a bitch. If I didn't need you, you'd have a bullet in your head right now. And Gabrieli would have put it there."

"This is hardly the place to discuss such things," I say. "And just what is it you have to show M. Gabrieli?"

"Don't play cute, Doc," he sneers. "I have a certain video tape."

It is as I thought. _Le bon Dieu me pardonne_ - God forgive me. I shrug. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Like hell you don't."

There is a knock at the door before I can answer and it opens. Pere Jean comes into the room and addresses Eddie.

"I am pleased to tell you, Monsieur...?

"Brill."

"Monsieur Brill. I am pleased to say that Pere Michel, our abbe, has approved of your stay. Are you a Catholic, Monsieur?"

"No. I'm a Baptist."

Pere Jean nods. "_Bon._ Do you wish to be shown to your room now?"

Eddie looks at me, a self-righteous smirk on his face. "Not yet. Doctor Galbon and I have some unfinished business just now." His French is not that good, but it is certainly understandable. Heavily accented, but understandable.

Pere Jean inclines his head. "Of course. If you would care to stay here, Monsieur, I will return after prayers. There will be fresh clothing in your room and a razor so that you may wash and change and someone will come to show you to the refectory for supper." Then he turns to me. "Will you take the sacrament today, Rene?" I know he means Confession, not Communion. He is being discreet. 

"I will come in the morning as usual, Mon Pere," I say.

"Bon. I will leave you, then."

When Pere Jean has left, Eddie settles himself into the chair. He relishes this. He sees me at his mercy and I am not sure that this is not so, for the moment.

"Where were we?" he says.

I simply stare at him. The more he believes he is in control of this situation, the more he will talk and the more I will know. Eddie is a man who likes to be in control. But he also likes the sound of his own voice.

"You were one of the best, Doc," he says. "You were the guy Horton sent after the real slimeballs, the worst of the lot. You were fearless and nothing bothered you. Then you got soft. Maybe you got religion, I dunno. Darius got religion; didn't mean he wasn't still the biggest son of a bitch around. We did the world a service."

I shrug and stub out the cigarette. The logic is typical. "And killing me would have been a service to the world?"

He smiles. "Well, I thought so. I guess it's a matter of opinion. But you knew too much. Way too much. I heard you got drunk and tried to eat your own gun after you took out that Viking. What was his name? We just thought we'd give you some help, you know? A little encouragement just in case you were gonna spill your guts in some misguided fit of bad conscience. You've been a little worry to us ever since we missed, you know what I mean? But you went real quiet after that. And now I know why." He chuckles and stubs out his own cigarette. "You like being a daddy?" He watches me, expecting me to be angry. I have been angry since the moment I saw him in the station; I say nothing. "Yeah, well, that gives me an edge I didn't expect. Still, I'm not that soft-hearted. One false move and that tape goes to you know who and your kid's an orphan."

"How do I know this tape exists, that you are not lying to me?" 

He shrugs. "You don't. And you didn't ask me what's on it, so I figure you know it exists - and you know what's on it."

I consider this for a moment. It was an error on my part. "All right. I know about the tape. And you know where it is, I take it."

He laughs. "Oh, yeah. I know where it is. You cross me, you're a dead man, even if I make it out of Europe alive. I got your ass in a sling from now 'til doomsday, Doc. Just where I want it."

"Blackmail."

"Whatever it takes. You're an honourable man; you'll honour your 'obligations'. Now ain't that an irony?"

I take off my glasses and rub my hand across my face. In my mind, I see myself breaking his neck. I wait a few seconds until I am calmer, then put my glasses back on and look at him. 

"Anything else you want to tell me about?" I ask him. 

He laughs. "Is that your best shrink bedside manner? Yeah, well, maybe this will be the last chance we have for a nice little talk. You're entitled to know why you're in the shit, I guess. You remember that Brit from finance? Harold Croft? Sure you do. Believed in the cause but didn't want to get his own hands dirty, did a little fiddling with the books to buy weapons, that kind of thing? Seems I shot my mouth off back in my younger days, bragged about what it was like to waste Immortal scum, how I figured we were saving humanity from one more curse. He got a little nervous when Gabrieli took over. Gabrieli let it out on the grapevine that he would be willing to grant amnesty to anyone with information and he jumped at the chance. Remembered my little tirade from all those years back. Next thing I know, I'm sweating it out in Gabrieli's office. Croft didn't have any proof, of course. I told Gabrieli the guy was queer, which he is, and put the moves on me back then and that when I told him I'd cut his balls off if he did it again he said he'd get even. I doubt Gabrieli bought it but it did give me a little breathing room. He's having me followed, of course. They're following you, too, you know."

_Oh mon Dieu!_ Does Gabrieli suspect me? That explains how he knows that I am treating Adam. Or perhaps they have been following Adam. _Calme-toi, Rene. Tais-toi_. "He is being cautious," I say, hoping that I sound a lot steadier than I feel. "Perhaps he suspected that you would come to me for help. I am a Watcher who is more or less independent of the Council, you have known me for twenty years..." I shrug. "I was a good possibility." I sincerely hope that I have interpreted it correctly. Panic would be fatal at this point. Quite literally.

"I think I ditched them a couple of days back, anyway. I haven't spotted them since then."

Until an hour ago, my movements were quite legitimate. I have nothing to fear so long as I stay calm. And that will be difficult. I will need to get back to Paris and think.

"You know," he says when I say nothing, "your old boss, Sean Burns, he was on our list that night, too. Real kingpin, high profile, easy to get to... If we took him out, it would have sent a message that no Immortal was safe from us. And then, funny thing... he disappears until the ruckus blows over. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Doc?"

I just look at him; let him think what he will. I saved one life at least. Poor payment for all those I took.

"Horton wanted to take out MacLeod as well but that was personal. We figured MacLeod wasn't important and he was doing a fine job of wasting Immortals himself. We told Horton if he wanted to really do it up proud, he should figure out who Methos was and take _him_ down. He was even working on that, dug up this fucking chronicle that nobody had ever seen before, bunch of clay tablets, if you can believe that, with that writing that looks like chicken feet, you know what I mean? Never said where he got it or how he knew what was on it. Said it had some ancient Sumerian poem. I think it was just crap, you ask me, probably somebody's laundry list he was just using as bait. He figured if he leaked it out that it existed, Methos himself would come looking for it. Nice little trap." 

A chill runs down my spine, not for the first time today. 

"Only the trap never got sprung. Only guy who showed any interest was that researcher, Adam Pierson. Horton caught him snooping around one night. Man, that guy is not wrapped too tight, you know what I mean? Nobody's surprised you're treating him."

I shrug. "That is confidential. I'm sure you understand that."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the guy's a historian, involved in the Methos Project, so of course he was interested. Horton acted kinda weird about it, though." He shrugs. "Don't know what that was about but I did get that he didn't like the guy too much. Real wingnut. Working in those dusty archives must do something to the brain cells."

I smile. "Perhaps. How did Adam hear of this chronicle?"

"Oh, it was real cute the way Horton did it. Smart bastard." I light another cigarette; he asks me for another one and I give it to him. My nerves are very bad and I need it to calm them. "He got Phillips - you remember him, had a real thing for whacking females - got him to wine and dine some chick in records, just a file clerk, real gossipy little piece. So he beds this girl and just 'happens' to let it slip in the heat of passion that he has a Methos chronicle, only it's clay tablets. This is way too good for her to keep to herself and it's all over the place faster than the flu. Next day, he's called up on the carpet, tells Shapiro it was some bullshit line to impress the girl." He flicks the cigarette ash into the ashtray and stretches. He smiles at me but his eyes are narrow. He is looking for a reaction from me and I have to wonder why. "Cute, huh? Horton figures only the real Methos would know for sure there really was a chronicle on clay tablets because he's probably the one who wrote the fucking thing, you know? You ever hear anything?"

He is fishing. I shrug and shake my head. "Something... I did not give it much thought."

"Yeah, you were staying clear of us by that time, had your head up your ass feeling sorry for yourself. Anyway, who should come sneaking into Horton's office but Adam Pierson. Horton was keeping the place staked out himself. The guy picked that damn lock like a pro, so Horton told me. Interesting, don't you think?" He grins at me. He is telling me something and I do not like what I am hearing. He suspects and I must throw him off the track.

"I am not free to say anything about Adam's background but I am not surprised. He has some... unusual talents."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, he says if there's a chronicle, it should come to him because it's his job. Horton tells him it's in a safe place and to get the fuck out of there."

"Where is this chronicle now?" I ask him.

"Safety deposit box."

"And who has the key?"

He chuckles. "That's one secret I'll keep to myself. I hear it's worth a fortune. It's gonna help me get set up back in the States. And it's an insurance policy. Not that I don't trust you, Doc. I mean, I don't, not for a minute. But I don't think you're a thief. Funny, ain't it? You're a murderer, but you're no thief." And he laughs.

I have heard enough. I finish the cigarette and stub it out, then I stand up and put my chair back in its place. "I'll be in touch," I say.

"That's it? You'll 'be in touch'? You're some cold cat, Doc."

***

Chapter 3

Saturday, November 23, 2002

The Paris train, 2:30 pm

And I left him.

I could not go home right away; I needed to calm down. Perhaps I had seemed cold to Eddie but that is what I do best, how I earn my living. On the inside... That was a different story. 

I walked downtown from the abbey and went into a bar I had never seen before. It was the kind of place that tourists like, blue and white tablecloths, photographs of the cathedral and the Smiling Angel of Reims on the walls, a place for good food at low prices where one can buy a good wine to wash it down. It was far from empty, a good thing when one wishes to hide in a crowd.

I found a quiet corner in the back, sat down and lit a cigarette. The waiter came toward me.

_"Qu'est-ce que je vous sers?"_ ["What can I get you?"]

"_Whiskey._"

"_C'est un peu tot pour un whiskey, non_?" ["It's a little early for whiskey, isn't it?"]

"_Je n'en ai rien a foutre de ton avis. Contente-toi de me servir_." ["I don't give a fuck what you think. Just bring it."]

While he brought me my drink, I found myself watching the door. Every time it opened, I felt my stomach tighten. My hand shook as I brought the cigarette to my mouth. I could not go home like this. I took my glasses off and rubbed my face. When the drink came, the waiter slid it across the table and left, muttering something under his breath. I had been foolish to insult him. He would remember me now. I was no longer used to thinking about such things, taking such precautions. I had forgotten and that bastard had reminded me.

I held the drink in my hands and thought about how I should not be doing this, how I should report Eddie to Gabrieli and take my chances. But even with an amnesty, if there really was such a thing, if it came to a tribunal, I could not survive; there would be no mercy there and I have enemies. I would have a bullet in my brain before the day was out. Gabrieli's priorities are not necessarily those of the Council but he does have them. Even so, it would finish me. I would lose his trust and his priorities are not my own. And I had no idea where that tape was; perhaps he had only heard of it and was using me. Until I knew one way or the other, or until I could find it and destroy it, I was at his mercy. If I found it... 

It was a set-up. Horton knew that I was losing faith in the Hunters, that I was no longer convinced. I had seen my share of viciousness, of Immortals who thought nothing of the lives they took, Mortal and Immortal alike, and I had been sickened. It is the same old story. I was lost and Horton found me. I was a boy without a father, a boy whose mother had died by her own hand; he knew what I wanted and he gave it to me. I took out my anger and my pain by killing. _Le bon Dieu me pardonne. _

And then it was too much. He knew. My guilt was becoming overwhelming and he was afraid that I would go to Shapiro. He was not entirely wrong; I had considered it. Perhaps if I had not been doing my residency with Sean, if Sean had not seen that I was troubled and taken me under his wing - perhaps it was even the friendship of Adam Pierson - I would have done it... and I would be dead now. 

I drained the glass without stopping, stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. My hands were still shaking. I signalled to the waiter and pointed to my glass. It would not be necessary to speak to him this time; he is old enough to have seen men like me before, men who are trying to drown their fears before dinner time. He brought me another without a word but his face told me what he thought of a grown man behaving this way. He is young; if he is lucky, he will not learn the hard way why grown men do such things.

I put my head in my hands, afraid to remember, needing to remember, needing to think about what might have happened to that damnable tape. 

I was told to see Horton at his hotel. That always meant only one thing. An assignment. I almost did not go but I was afraid. It was too easy to kill me, to denounce me. I was too far gone to realize that that was the last thing on their minds. Questions would have been asked; if the Council had arrested me, I would have talked, taken them all down. They could not risk that. I know that now; I am older and wiser now. At least, I hope I am wiser.

And it _was_ an assignment. His name was Rodrig Ericsson and he was a Viking. Horton told me of his past, told me tales of his brutality, the viciousness of his acts, particularly against women, raping them violently before slitting their throats. I was appalled. He told me it would be my last assignment; if I would do this one last thing, he would release me. 

What I found was a quiet man, more than a thousand years old, a married man with two adopted children. Yes, he had lived such a life but it was so long ago. Could I not have mercy? But I was too blinded, perhaps even too afraid. I screamed at him, cursed him, called him filth. He asked for his life for the sake of his wife and children. But I was unmoved. Then he knelt before me and forgave me. And I did it. God forgive me, I did it.

As I thought about these things, things long buried, my heart began to pound in my chest and my hand closed into a fist. I drained the glass and called for another. _O mon Dieu_... such terrible things! The waiter brought me another glass and I took it from his hand without a word. I held it in my hand but did not drink it. That would not solve my problem. And I could not go home drunk.

I finished the cigarette and lit another. It has been years since I chain-smoked. _Tant pis._

After I killed him, I fled. His blood was all over me. I left him to the clean-up crew and went straight to a bar and got very drunk. I remember only that I was weeping, holding my gun, feeling its weight in my hand, stroking the smooth, silken metal of the barrel. Then I woke up in a cell at the police station with the worst hangover I have ever had in my life. My head throbbed mercilessly and I was very sick. The police told me I had tried to kill myself, that the bartender had called them. I remembered nothing. Was it true? they asked me again and again. Did I want to kill myself? Who was I? Why was there blood on my clothing? What had I done that I wanted so badly to end it all? Where did I get the gun? Where had I been before going to the bar? So many questions, over and over, until I could stand no more. 

I understood very little; I was very confused. I was not even sure where I was. Sometimes I understood their questions, but mostly I did not. Their faces became his face; their voices became his voice. I did not understand why he was screaming at me. He had not screamed at me, after all. His voice had been gentle, his face peaceful. And I wept for him. And for myself. I begged his forgiveness. And sometimes they were Horton and Eddie Brill, screaming their hatred, questioning me, reviling me. I fought them. I remember blows and I remember waking on the floor, huddled into a ball, handcuffs on my wrists, wet with my own blood. I think they left me alone after that.

They found my identification and called the hospital. Sean came to fetch me and identified me, told them that I was indeed a resident physician at the hospital but that I was suffering from fatigue and was a patient at the moment under his care, that I had wandered away and found a dog that had been hit by a car, that it was the dog's blood on my clothing, that in my precarious mental condition it had pushed me over the edge. Since there had been no report of a body, they believed him. Or at least, they could find no other reason to keep me. And the bartender was firm that I had nearly blown off my own head. They released me into Sean's custody and he took me back to the hospital. He admitted me for nervous exhaustion and I spent months recovering. He knew. I had told him of my activities. I don't know why he never turned me in. 

'Admitted'? Why do you lie to yourself, Rene? Sean committed you.

Ah, yes. And he had every reason to do so. I was very serious about killing myself. Very serious indeed. Although I did not remember the bar, not all of it, I do remember still wanting to do it. If the bartender had not called the police, I would certainly have done it. I woke up in that cell without my shoes and without a belt. And if they had let me go, I would have found a way. But they were hardly about to do that. On the telephone, they told Sean that they thought I was insane, that I might have killed someone and was raving. The police doctor gave me a sedative injection at Sean's request and they restrained me. I would have fought them otherwise, fought because I wanted to die, not to live. Sean came prepared. He brought two attendants with him. I cannot tell these things to Adam, but I know what it is like to be strapped down, to be alternately raving and weeping, to have the door locked to keep you safe from yourself, your clothes taken away, to be unable to tell night from day and dread them both. But I also know that I survived it. 

But for Adam... _Ah, non. Ce n'est pas la meme chose. Pas du tout._ It is not the same thing at all. I am a Mortal. There is no-one waiting for signs of weakness to take my head. 

And you did not survive all that easily, Rene. 

And that is true enough. The terrible nightmares, the fear, the aching sadness that shows itself as a black pit, cold and bottomless, that sucked me down into itself and held me fast - I deny none of this. I did not want to come back to the world of the living, to the world of pain and sorrow; I wanted it only to end. Sean was not a believer in drugs any more than Adam but he kept me sedated and quiet and I was grateful. I judged myself unworthy to live and some of that still lies inside my tired brain; I have fought it every day of my life. He saw something worthwhile, worth saving. He believed in me when I believed in nothing at all. And this I now do for my own patients. Perhaps I have saved a life or two because I understood from the inside. I cannot know this for certain, but I can hope.

I contemplated the glass and smoked my cigarette. _Et ca n'etait pas la fin de l'affaire._ It was not over. 

Even before I killed Rodrig, Sean had been urging me to go to confession, told me it would do me good. He suggested Darius but I refused. Darius was an Immortal and I would have nothing to do with Immortals in my life. I smiled at the thought. Such an irony. I saw Sean as something of a saint, a man who had spent centuries being kind and caring; Darius... that was another matter. Then Rodrig. My next little _tete-a-tete_ with Adam was subdued. It was amusing, really. He was very kind. I was the one who needed to talk and he saw that. I had not seen him for several weeks but he knew where I had been. Sean told me that he asked to come and see me but Sean discouraged him, knowing what Adam did not, that I was there because I had killed Immortals, mercilessly and cruelly. He thought it best that Adam be kept away, and perhaps he was right, whatever his real reasons.

When I saw Adam that day, I was still quite ill - these things take time. I had lost a lot of weight for one thing. When you are as big as I, your clothes hang off your frame and your eyes sink into your head. I had broken my glasses in that cell and my new ones did not fit very well. It did not add to the picture.

"You look like hell, Rene," he said. It was said with sympathy. "Didn't Sean's cook feed you?"

I smiled at him and lit my perpetual cigarette. "He fed me well enough. I did not wish to eat."

"And you could use a beer, I know. I suppose Sean's a bit of a grump about his patients having anything stronger than weak tea. Do you want to talk about it?"

It made me laugh. "It seems that talking is all I do. I talk for three sessions a week with Sean. I talk to myself and now I talk to you."

He shrugged. "Whatever it takes. You feeling any better?"

I noticed that he did not ask me why I had been there. It told me that there was more compassion inside him than I would have given him credit for before then. But my own illness had taught me to be aware of more things, of kindnesses, perhaps, and this was surely a kindness. I found it difficult to talk to him as I found it difficult to talk to anyone other than Sean just then. It was just as well that I did not know who he was. I merely shook my head.

"Can I help?"

I just looked it him. "What?"

He shrugged. "Can I help? I mean, you listen to my little troubles and put up with me getting snarky about those idiots I have to work with. You're always very tolerant of my petty ravings. I thought it was my turn. Least I can do. Besides get you drunk and maybe get you laid. I'm sure that wouldn't go amiss... And I'm past due." He grinned and I had to laugh. And I did feel a little better. 

"I was told that you came to visit me."

"Yeah. Your watchdog threw me out. Told me I was a bad influence on you. Suppose I am really."

"Is this true? Sean said this?"

"Nah. Pulling your leg." He drank some of the beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip in a gesture I had come to know well. It was good to have a friend. "Actually, he told me that it was pretty serious, that you'd tried to do yourself in. So, can I help?"

I shook my head. "No. It is nothing that you can help me with. I suppose that it is a matter of conscience."

"Then maybe you need to go to Confession."

It startled me. Had Sean told him to suggest it? "Why do you say this?"

He shrugged. "I just thought it might be an idea. You're a Catholic, it's your tradition, your culture. That's important. Tradition matters."

I drank some beer, smoked a little while I thought about it. "Perhaps."

"Seriously. I think you should."

"How can I tell a priest that I work with Immortals? He will think me mad."

"Then go to Darius."

_Mon Dieu!_ Confess to an Immortal? It seemed no more sensible now than when Sean had suggested it. I was horrified. 

He put down his beer and stared at me. "What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a ghost. I think he'd be perfect. And he won't think you're stark staring bonkers."

I wonder now how much Adam knew. He cannot have known what I was but I have learned to take nothing about him for granted. If I saw this as a matter of conscience, in fact, who better to confess to? It would be a penance, and a deserved one. But could I bring myself to do it? Could I tell an Immortal that I had butchered his own kind? Yet, who better to beg for forgiveness? It was fitting. 

I nodded. "All right."

"Good. I'll introduce you. I'd rather you go to him than pour your religious problems out on my head. Drink up."

It was my turn to stare. "You know Darius?" 

He shrugged and drank some more beer. "Of course."

"But that is interference. Do you want to face a tribunal?"

He looked disgusted. "Since when did you worry about rules, Rene? And for your information, as a historian I have a dispensation to talk to Darius because he knew Methos."

"I see."

"He's a good guy. You'll like him. Tells great stories. With home-made mead. Besides, it's time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. You're no fun when you're gloomy and we need to get down to some serious fun again. I've been getting bored."

And I went - in fear and trembling. He was waiting for us. What could I say to this man, this Immortal whose file showed him to be worse than Rodrig? But he was gracious and Adam was insistent.

Darius spent many hours with me over the next few months. I told him everything, about the Watchers, about the Hunters and my part in it, and now I cannot help believing that that is why he was murdered. Because he knew. Oh, Horton hated him; that was his excuse. But his reason was that Darius knew too much. And it was I who told him. I have this, too, on my conscience. He suggested that I find Rodrig's widow and children, which I did. They had gone to the Ardennes and it was not hard to find them. I sent her money, telling her I had been a friend of her husband's, that he had once helped me. I had his file, of course; it was not difficult to be convincing. She wrote back and thanked me. I sent money every month for years after that. 

And somehow Horton found out. Nearly a year after I thought it was all over, I got a call.

"Go to see Horton or you are a dead man," the voice on the telephone told me in unaccented French. I did not recognize it. 

"I will not take another assignment," I told the voice. 

"Just go to see him, or you will regret it."

When I got to Horton's hotel room, he was pleasant. Too pleasant. One suspects pleasantness in dangerous men.

"Come in, come in, Rene," he said. "I was sorry to hear of your illness last year. Are you feeling any better?"

I looked around me, half-expecting him not to be alone. I was also a dangerous man, after all. And I was not very happy about how things had turned out. Perhaps I would take it into my head that if I was going to be a dead man anyway, I should take him with me. Were they not afraid of that? They should fear me, I told myself. I was also a little mad, _non_? 

"Why am I here?" I asked him. 

There was a half-smile on his face. "You don't trust me."

"No, I do not."

"Don't worry. You're safe enough. If I wanted you dead, I'd let Shapiro do it."

"You will not denounce me. You would not dare." It was bravado. I would have believed anything of Horton. With him, you were either with him or against him, and I was certainly no longer with him. There was no middle ground.

He shrugged. "For a man who tried to kill himself not so long ago, you seem remarkably anxious to live. You did a good job for us. It was a clean kill."

I stared at him. "That is over. In the past and I do not wish to speak of such things. I will not kill for you again."

He smiled. "It's all right. There will be no more assignments. I asked you here to show you something. Sit down."

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

He went over to the television set and turned it on. Then he put a tape into the VCR.

"Just watch."

It was all there. I saw Rodrig's face as he let me in. I saw myself... _O mon Dieu_!... I saw myself screaming at him, cursing him, my face distorted with rage and hatred. My stomach was churning but I could not look away. Then I saw him kneel, speak to me and bow his head. I could look no more. I made it into the bathroom in time to heave my guts into the toilet. 

"Yes, indeed. You have gone soft." He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded, one foot over the other. The tape was in one hand, a Glock 36 in the other.

I stayed on the floor, my head resting against the sink, not sure that I was finished. "He was not a bad man," I said, the taste of vomit foul in my mouth.

"Not for three hundred years or so, perhaps, but they never really change, don't you find?"

"Why did you send me?"

He walked into the bathroom and looked down at me as if I were something floating in the toilet. "I wanted you dead. I still want you dead. And now I can have you dead any time I wish while I reap the rewards of being a conscientious Watcher who would turn one of his own in to the Council for such... reprehensible activities. Rodrig had a Watcher who was thinking of becoming one of us; he did us a favour that night and we killed two birds with one stone. You're safe from him, though. He's not talking any more. Too bad, really, but he was even more sickened than you and changed his mind; I had to convince him to turn over the tape."

"You convinced him with a bullet."

"Something like that."

"And why did you not just shoot me?"

"Mm... let's just say that I might have a use for you. Properly controlled, of course. If your conscience bothers you again, I can always just yank on your leash. And just in case this isn't enough to deter you," he waved the tape at me, "I might just show this to that researcher friend of yours, Adam Pierson. Think about that." He backed away and levelled the gun at my head. "Now get out."

***

Do such memories never fade? I downed that third drink like water. I stayed in the bar for a good half hour more, long enough to finish my packet of cigarettes and drink some coffee. When my nerves were a little more settled, I left, bought another packet of cigarettes and went home by taxi. I could not rid my mind of those images, so long quiet now, that haunted me for so long. I barely heard what the taxi driver was saying when we arrived. I threw a ten-euro note at him and got out. 

When I opened the front door, Mathilde was waiting. I fell to my knees, caught her up in my arms and held her to me more tightly than I had ever done before. As I felt her warmth, her life, the life that I gave her, I was overcome - with my love for her, with my terror of the danger I had placed us both in and with the rush of guilt for the things I had done, things that were now coming back to tear apart everything I had managed to build. I wept, silently, deeply. Her arms tightened around me.

"_Je t'aime, Papa,_" she said. "_Je t'aime._"

Nikki did not ask me what had happened. I had hoped that the time would never come when I would have to tell her. And now... Now I could say nothing. I have not deserved such love from these two people.

I took Mathilde downtown to go shopping for a birthday present for Nikki. She is a quiet child, thoughtful. When she was born, I became desperately afraid for her, for myself; she would have no-one if anything happened to me. And I knew myself what that was like. My work took all my attention; I stayed away from other Watchers, even Adam. Our friendship faded as we went our own ways. I wanted no-one to know about my child. Sean was her godfather and Adam came for the christening. Darius officiated. We made a strange group, we six. Nikki will never know how strange. I wanted Adam to be her godfather but he refused, very politely. I did not know who he was then, of course. He merely said that he was not a Catholic and left it at that. He brought a present, a little gold necklace of some antiquity, something, he said, that he had acquired in Iran before the fall of the Shah. I have it safe for her. 

Adam insisted on taking a turn holding Mathilde. He was so tender with her, held her so gently. I watched him talking to her, smiling, laughing quietly as if they were the only two people in the world, he and that tiny baby. I told him afterward that I thought he should raise a family of his own, that he would make a wonderful father. He only smiled at me very sadly. I wish I had known. 

I bought the house in Reims, worked in the garden, watched her grow. Nikki came with me. She had been looking after Mathilde since her mother abandoned us both when Mathilde was only a few days old. Now she is as much my family as Mathilde and we are hers. My home is her home.

We bought the present for Nikki. Mathilde picked it out herself. I was too distracted to be good company. She showed me all sorts of things and I nodded and made the odd remark. Finally, she took my hand.

"What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing, Mati. Nothing important."

But children are not so easily fooled. "Why were you crying?" she asked.

"Because I was sad."

"Are you sad now?"

I shook my head. "No. Not now."

She smiled at me and I gave her a little hug. She did not ask me again.

We found something to Mathilde's liking. At home, she wrapped it neatly. We went for supper to our favourite restaurant, where she gave it to Nikki. Nikki unwrapped it, a silk scarf, perhaps a little too colourful for Nikki's taste, but gratefully accepted. I watched them proudly, loving them both. But I could not shed the weight of my fears. 

This morning, I said goodbye, promised to come back soon, hugged them both and left with an ache in my heart. Nikki looked very worried but I can say nothing to her until this is over and we are all safe once again. And if it does not end well? I must make some provision for that event. I had not thought of it before this. The more years that passed, the safer it seemed until the danger seemed only a fantasy, nothing real. The nightmares receded, my mind calmed, my child grew. 

I paid my visit to Pere Jean at the abbey. As I knelt in the confessional, crossed myself and began, it came on me like a flood.

"_Pardonnez-moi, Mon Pere, parce que j'ai peche..._"

I have told him most of it over the years. Now, I dredged my memory for any detail I had missed before. When he absolved me, he told me that he would like to see me in his study. He did not give me a penance.

In his tiny study, he invited me to sit in the armchair and told me that I could smoke if it would give me some comfort. I took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited patiently.

"How can I help you, Rene?" he asked me.

"You are helping me, Mon Pere."

And I told him about Eddie, what his game was, how I had to do as he asked unless I could think of some way out. 

"This tape, Rene. It is most disturbing. It must weigh on your conscience terribly."

I was unable to look at him. "Yes, Mon Pere. Very disturbing."

"Do you think you can retrieve it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I will try."

He leaned forward in his chair and sighed a little. "I must ask you this, Rene. You don't have to answer me. Do you intend to kill this man?"

I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed my forehead with my fingers. So much killing. "Yes. I do. But it is unlikely that he will oblige me by giving me the chance." 

"Look at me, Rene." I took a drag on the cigarette. "Look at me."

I raised my eyes and he nodded at me. He has known me ever since Darius died. He understands; his father was a member of the Resistance. "You will do what you have to do, as we all must. If I thought you were judging him, I would have other things to say, but I do not feel that this is so. I have not heard you say to me that he deserves to die." He shook his head. "Not everything is a matter of right or wrong. I leave it in your hands and leave God to judge. To presume to know these things is arrogance and that is something I try not to be. Do you understand what I am saying?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mon Pere. I think so."

He laughed quietly. "And then, perhaps I am being a coward. I don't know."

I smiled. "No, Mon Pere. You are no coward."

"Your friend is behaving himself, at least."

"He knows what is in his own best interest. He will give you no trouble."

"No, I do not expect that he will."

And we talked of the garden and of how the restoration of the church was going. I have donated my time and my labour to the work there over the years, a small penance. I learned to love gardening and recommend it to my patients. The garden at my house is a joy, such as it is. The hard work seems to be good for me. 

Toward noon, I thanked him for his kindness and understanding. He gave me his blessing and I left to catch the train. I did not want to see Eddie. Perhaps that was cowardly of me, but I think not. 

Chapter 4

The train ride has been uneventful and I have caught up my notes. It keeps my mind occupied, at least. I relax into the seat and watch the fields go by the window. Half an hour and we will be in the Gare de l'Est. I take my glasses off and close my eyes. I did not sleep well and I am weary. Perhaps tonight I will see Martine.

And perhaps if Adam is still doing well on Monday, I will suggest three times a week instead of every day. It is less tiring for both of us. And we will discuss some rules. Always there must be ground rules and responsibility - a kind of contract. He is willful. If he were a Mortal and not concerned for his very life every waking moment, it would be much easier; I would commit him and have done with it. As it is, to do this before he is ready and without his consent would make him worse. It terrifies him. His paranoia is all the greater because it is founded in reality; he has a horror of being in captivity, even one which would do him good in the long run. In the short run, it could be a disaster. I know this. His paranoia would become all-consuming. He is very vulnerable in this fragile state. And yet I may still have no choice. He would be very dangerous if he were to become delusional.

When I first met him, he was merely depressed and a little paranoid. Since I believed him to be mortal, I suspected incipient psychosis, that he was already delusional. It all makes sense now, of course. We must speak of his Immortality; it colours everything. If he does not like it... _tant pis._

Many years ago, Sean was 'treating' Adam. That is to say, he was seeing Adam unofficially, listening to his troubles over a beer, being a friend, attempting to steer him toward answers which would help him fight off the depression that was obviously troubling him severely even then. Adam had not long been out of the Academy, perhaps two years. Sean assigned me to become his friend. He did not tell me that Adam was Immortal and Adam did not know that I was a psychiatrist. My official position was as physician assigned to the hospital, doing a psychiatric rotation, no more. Sean was as worried for my mind as he was for Adam's; I was still a Hunter, although it was troubling me more and more. Sean introduced us, then left us to get acquainted over beer. It worked well.

When I think of it now, I realize what a dangerous game Sean was playing, how easily it could have gone so very wrong. If I had known Adam was an Immortal, I would have tried to kill him; if Adam had known I was a Hunter, he would have killed me first. And rightly so. As it happens, by good luck or by the grace of God, we are both still alive. But we became friends, if only casual ones. I was thirty-nine years old and very lonely, very confused; I was, in fact, doing my psychiatric residency with Sean. It began as therapy for Adam, although Adam was unaware of it, and became therapy for me. We met regularly for a beer and talk; soon we were going out on the town together, getting drunk, bedding women. I amuses me now. It was a side of him that he did not show to the Watchers. When I think of it now, I realize that it was incautious of him; perhaps the burden of being Adam Pierson was too much and a little rebellion suited him. I don't know. Promiscuous sexual behaviour and alcohol abuse are symptoms of severe depression; if I admitted to seeing it in him, I would have to see it in myself and I was not willing to do that. Not at all. Even after my breakdown, I would not see.

I still remember those little chats, even with some pleasure. But not always so. One in particular. It was the day Horton showed me that tape. It did terrible things to me; if it was his revenge, then it did what he had hoped. But I was not what he thought; there was no leash about my neck. I was enraged. I called Adam at work and asked him to see me. I cannot say why and I knew it was wrong; to do such a thing was not ethical. He agreed to meet me at our usual place. I went there and waited for him. My nerves were very bad and my hands shook. I ordered brandy and drank it down, then asked for another and another. By the time Adam arrived, I was already drunk. I was also extremely agitated.

He walked into the bar and saw me, smiled and waved. On his way past the counter, he said something to the waiter, who nodded. As he came closer and saw the state I was in, he sighed very heavily and not a little sadly. 

He sat in the chair opposite me and leaned forward, keeping his voice down. He knew how to be discreet. "What the hell happened to you?" 

"_Ce trou du cul Horton!_" It was all I could say. I mashed the cigarette I was holding into the overflowing ashtray and lit another one.

"English, Rene. What about Horton?"

I jabbed my forehead with my finger. "The son of a bitch threatens to kill me, holds a gun to my head. _Outain de merde!_"

A look came over his face. I did not understand it at the time, and perhaps I still do not. It was anger... and something else. His eyes were cold and his face hard. As his therapist, even an unofficial one, and even drunk, it seemed to me strange, out of character.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I know things. I know things and he is a dead man!"

I had expected him to react to the name - I knew he hated Horton; we had spoken of it - but he said nothing. He sat there, quiet, just watching me. "Are you taking your medication?' he asked. 

The question struck me as immensely funny and I laughed. "You know that I am not." 

"Yeah, well I think a couple of downers are in order about now."

The waiter brought his beer and placed it on the table. He turned to me. "_Et vous, Monsieur?_"

Adam gave me a look. "He won't be having anything more," he told the waiter.

"_Eh, bien._" 

Adam waited until we were alone again. "What the hell do you think you are doing? You trying to kill yourself again?"

"No, but I am going to kill _him._ No-one threatens me like that. No-one!"

"Like hell you are. You're going home, you're going to take a couple of those happy pills Sean keeps you supplied with and you're going to stay there until you've sobered up and calmed down even if I have to lock you in. Do I have to spell it out?"

I did not know whether Adam knew that Horton was a Hunter; we had never spoken of such things. I was not even certain whether he knew about them; it was safest to say nothing. I had been on the edge of going to Shapiro for some time, of turning myself in to the Council. Perhaps I was talking myself into it even then, saying my goodbyes. I don't know. 

Horton's little game had me badly shaken. What did I care for that tape? How do you control a man who does not fear to die for his own sins? He was a coward. But he was smart to have a gun or I would have killed him and taken it then. And if he had given the tape to Shapiro? I would have taken them all down. It was useless to them. If Horton did not know that, then he was a fool. 

I ignored Adam's attempt to talk sense to me. "Can you get me a gun?" I asked him. "The police still have mine."

His face softened and he was Adam Pierson again. He shook his head. "Not really my area of expertise, I'm afraid."

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. "Forgive me, _mon ami_. I should not have asked."

He shrugged. "It's all right. It's just that it would draw the wrong kind of attention, don't you think? They know we're friends, Rene. A bit suspicious if I nose around in the wrong places and then Horton ends up dead as a doornail, feeding the rats in a back alley. And the police already have a file on you. You do something stupid and you're going to be in it up to your Gallic neck. Sometimes it's best just to walk away." And wait for the right moment. He did not say it, but that was what he was telling me.

But I could not, of course. My anger made me foolish and I ignored his advice. Perhaps if I had known who he was, I would have heeded it. 

And he did drive me home. He even came up to the apartment with me, although I was a little more sober again by then. He asked me where I kept my medication and I told him. He made me some coffee and found the pills. He gave me two and put the rest in his pocket, saying that he would give them back to me in the morning. He told me to take them but I only pretended. I spat them into my hand when his head was turned. I thought there was probably something on his mind, since he would not have made such a mistake at another time. When he left, I drank coffee until I was sober enough to drive.

It was dark before I trusted myself enough to do it. My hands had stopped shaking, perhaps because I had made my decision; I was going to kill Horton. I would be dead soon in any case, whether by Horton's hand or that of the Tribunal. It made no difference. I had no-one and part of me still wanted to end it. 

I drove to Headquarters because I knew where there was a gun. I would get it and go to Horton's hotel and do it there. I did not give a thought for what might happen after that; I only saw myself putting a bullet between his eyes, poor payment for the lives he snuffed out. But I did not blame him for my own ruin; I had done that all by myself. My death would be on my own head, no-one else's.

Security was very bad in those days and I had no difficulty getting into the building. I left the hallway dark and went straight to the offices of the field supervisors. I had a key, one that I had stolen while I was a Hunter. I had very little respect for their authority and I am glad that I am no longer under their control, little men with too much power, failed field operatives mostly, angry men, jealous of those of us still in the field, still doing what we had come there to do. They were responsible for issuing firearms to field operatives. I had applied for a new gun and been refused after my supervisor read my file and decided that I could not be trusted not to use it on myself. And perhaps he was not wrong. I could have bought one for myself, of course but I did not want there to be a record of it. But I knew where they were kept and it was a simple matter to break the lock and help myself to a Glock 36, with ammunition and a silencer. I loaded the gun, put it into my belt, put the silencer in my pocket and left.

The hallway was still dark. As I closed the door silently behind me, I heard something, a chair scraping across a floor somewhere near. My nerves were very raw and I was still a little drunk. My hand went to the gun; I took the silencer out of my pocket and screwed it into the barrel. It took me longer than it would have if I had been sober and I almost dropped it onto the marble floor but I managed it. Then I heard the sound again and followed it. 

It was coming from Horton's office. The light shone under the door and shadows across it showed me that someone was moving about but I heard no voices. I leaned against the doorpost to listen. When I was sure there was only one person there, I pushed the door handle down and pushed the door open. 

He was standing behind his desk, intent on some paper in his hand. When the door opened, he was not startled - was he expecting someone? - and when he saw who it was, even though I was holding a gun aimed at him, he smirked and chuckled a little. He put the paper into the desk drawer and closed it.

"What's this, Rene? A little show of backbone?"

"You underestimate me," I said through my teeth. "I want that tape." And I raised the gun to aim at his head.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? Your hand is shaking and your speech is a little slurred. My, my. A little liquid courage was necessary? How the mighty have fallen. You never needed it before."

"That tape? Now."

"Since you seem bent on self-destruction anyway, why do you want it?"

"Ah, _que vous avez raison_ - you are very right." And my finger moved against the trigger. The shot passed a few inches by his head and buried itself in the wall. The smug look on his face changed to one of fear. At last he understood.

"Get it."

He moved to a side table and reached toward the drawer. Then he hesitated. "How do I know you won't kill me anyway?"

"You do not." And I began to squeeze the trigger again. This time, I would do it.

Except that something came crashing down on my head. 

When I woke up, the pain in my head was unbelievable. I was lying on my face, soaking wet and very cold. I opened my eyes. I was in an alley somewhere, beside the trash bins of an apartment courtyard and it was raining. I raised my head slowly and saw the blood on the cobbles, mixing with the rain. The pain was worse if I moved. Nausea rushed over me and I vomited. I lay there, shivering, the rain soaking me. I put a hand to the back of my head and felt the blood. I tried to get up but could not. The dizziness and the pain were too much and I passed out. When I woke again, a hand was under one shoulder pulling me up.

"Come on, guy. Help me here." It was Adam's voice. "You are getting to be one big bloody pain my arse."

It took a few moments to get me to my feet and not before I vomited again. His car was in the alley and I leaned on him as we went to it. He opened the back door and helped me to get in and I lay down. I was very grateful to be out of the rain. He covered me with a blanket and took a look at my wound. 

"You need stitches. I can do it if you trust me. I don't think we should take you to hospital, considering what I think you were doing at Headquarters. You've got a medical bag at home, right?"

'Yes," I said. It was barely a whisper.

"Right. I'll get you home then. I wouldn't be surprised if you had a concussion to go with all that blood."

I do not remember the ride, although I do remember the clanking of the ancient elevator in my building. I do not remember him getting my wet clothing off but I do remember being in a warm bath and feeling a little better. 

I remember opening my eyes and seeing everything white. It was a few moments before I realized that I was in my own bathroom, lying in warm water. He was sitting on the toilet seat beside the tub, a very worried look on his face.

"I wish you'd stop fading on me," he said. "Definitely a concussion. Somebody really worked you over. I'm not sure you were supposed to wake up at all. It made stitching you up a lot easier, though. You'll feel better when you're warm again."

I felt my head and the stitches were there. The hair around them had been shaved and a gauze pad had been taped in place over them. Very professional. "Thank you."

"Don't wash your head just yet. Don't need to get the stitches wet until it starts to heal."

"I know. Thank you."

"All right. I'll get something warm for you to drink. If you need help getting out of the tub, call me. I don't want you falling."

"I will be all right."

"I've heard that one before."

I was able to see to myself. He had put pyjamas and a robe out for me to find. When I was dressed, I went into the kitchen but he made me get into bed and brought me some hot, sweet tea and a couple of painkillers from my medical bag. He sat in the chair by the bed while I drank it.

"How are you doing now?"

"Better, I think. The pain in my head is still very bad. I am sorry to put you to so much trouble."

"Not as if I could leave you lying there."

"How did you know where to find me?"

He chuckled. "I followed you to HQ. I saw you spit out those pills I gave you; you're too bloody stubborn to listen to reason sometimes."

I laughed. "And I thought I had fooled you." 

"I couldn't figure out why you weren't going to Horton's hotel, but then I remembered you telling me about that key you stole from the supervisory personnel offices. It was easy to put two and two together. You'd asked me to get you a gun; there are guns there - you had a key." He chuckled at that. "You're not very devious, Rene. And when you didn't come out, I got worried. Then I saw Horton's car leaving and followed it. Somebody else was driving, couldn't see who. He pulled into that alley and when he left, I went looking to see why. It took me a while to find you but there you were. I still don't know who it was and I still think you were supposed to die there. Why the hell didn't you listen to me? I've got better things to do than babysit you."

I felt very foolish listening to him. "I will - keep my head down? - you say this, _non_?"

He smiled. "Yeah, we say this. Bloody right you'll keep your head down. Unless you want it blown off. Do you want it blown off? Is that what this is all about?"

I had not thought him so perceptive. I sipped the tea while he watched me. "_Peut-etre_."

"Because if that's what it is, then knock it off. I've lost too many friends, Rene; I don't want to lose another one. All right?"

I just nodded; I had nothing to say to that. "Can you give me a cigarette?"

He laughed. "Sorry. They got soaked." His face darkened then as if something which had been under the surface was drawing him to itself. "I...um...there's somewhere I have to be. I'll come by tomorrow. All right?"

"I will be fine. Sean will give me some time to rest. Thank you, Adam. You may have saved my life."

"Don't get all melodramatic on me. You're a tough nut to crack. And somebody had a bloody good try. Walk away from it, Rene. I mean it."

I only smiled at him. He brought me some more tea, told me to drink it while it was hot and left. I drank the tea and slept the sleep of the dead. When I woke up, I called Sean, told him that I needed some time, that I would come to see him and we would talk. He did not seem surprised and I wondered if Adam had spoken to him.

And I did walk away. Sean told me to wait, as Adam had. And it all seemed to fade away. Horton was transferred out of Paris very soon afterward; I never knew where he went. And now it occurs to me to wonder if Adam had anything to do with that. I was his friend, whether I accepted it or not. Adam Pierson may have been afraid to act, but Methos was not. And now I hear about Horton's little plan to trap him. He must have known. Was he unable to resist the temptation..? _Oh mon Dieu!_ It just occurs to me... the chronicle must be real, or Adam would not have gone looking for it, whether he knew it was a trap or not. He is no fool. And I cannot believe that Methos would not know such a thing; he would have been dead long before the rise of the Roman Empire if that were so. He had gone wherever the chronicle was supposed to be, Horton had been waiting for him... And then? 

And something else. Had he gone to find the chronicle... or to confront Horton about me, his friend? Threaten him? What? Perhaps one day he will tell me. And perhaps one day pigs will sprout wings and will fly! 

No, it makes too much sense. Eddie was not lying; the chronicle exists. Somewhere. 

We are just coming into the station and it is raining. I gather my notes and put them into my knapsack. I must make sure that Adam is all right when I get back to the apartment. I am worried about his manner on Thursday. It is too soon to expect any significant progress beyond a very tenuous state. I still keep a dose of Haldol with me in the syringe in its little case just to be on the safe side. Oddly enough, he may agree to go into a suitable facility, perhaps at Sean's hospital, once the more severe stages of his illness have subsided and he is capable of more rational decisions regarding his own care. So long as he fears that he would be incarcerated involuntarily and unable to leave, so long as his fears and delusions are dominant, he will continue to be adamant and he will continue to refuse medication. And so long as he is not a danger to himself or others, I will accede to those wishes. But it is a fine balance, a little too fine to please me.

***

As the train comes to a stop, I put my jacket on. While I wait to get off, I find myself watching through the windows, looking for any familiar face, anyone who might be watching for me. On the platform, I stop to light a cigarette and as I cup my hands around the flame, I watch over my fingers. I look behind the iron grille of the gate, where people are waiting but there is no-one to worry me. I straighten and walk out onto the concourse. 

I take the stairs down to the Metro and buy flowers at the kiosk near the barriers. Half a dozen yellow roses with some greenery dyed deep blue. Very pretty. I buy these whenever I come and I must not disturb my routine, just in case I am being watched. Six euros. The woman smiles at me and greets me, tells me I am looking tired today. I tell her that she is as beautiful as ever and she laughs.

When I get back to my apartment, I throw my bag and knapsack onto the sofa, put the flowers in the blue vase and pick up the telephone. When I called Stephen on Thursday to give him my number in Reims, I told him I would call when I got back. I call Adam's apartment and it rings several times but there is no answer. Perhaps they are at the market. I take my bag into the bedroom and unpack it. Then I take a shower, let Mazout in, put a robe on and go back to the kitchen. There is no more wine but there is a bottle of vodka. I pour some orange juice and lace it with the vodka, then go to lie down on the sofa. 

But I am very restless. I sit up and take a drink. I open the tobacco tin and roll a cigarette - I have a packet but I prefer these. I light one and sit there, trying not to think. The telephone is beside me and I try Adam's number again. This time Stephen answers. He has been staying in Adam's apartment since the crisis; I am not sure that he approves of me but he doesn't question what I am trying to do for Adam. He thinks of Adam as his teacher, a role Adam does not care for. Which tells me that Stephen knows that he is Methos. But Stephen has been admirable these past few weeks. 

"Oh, hi, Rene," he says. "You're back?"

"Yes. About half an hour ago. I called but there was no answer."

"Yes, I was out doing some shopping. How was your little holiday?"

I ignore him. "How is Adam?"

"He's been a little off-colour but nothing out of the usual. He isn't here right now. I'm sure he isn't far."

He doesn't sound worried and he is concerned for Adam's welfare. He would not lie to me if there were anything wrong but I am disturbed that Stephen would let Adam get out of his sight. "When he comes home, would you tell him that I am back in Paris?"

"Of course."

I hang up. It is probably all right. Very likely, Adam has gone to Le Blues Bar for the afternoon. Joseph will be playing this evening. I like to listen to blues but if I drop in, they will think I am there to keep an eye on Adam - and they would not be so wrong. So long as the therapy is in progress, we are patient and therapist. We cannot be friends in the usual sense and that is as it must be.

I play the tape on my message machine. There is a message from the hospital; two patients have been asking to see me earlier than their scheduled time. I call the hospital and ask to have appointments made for them on my next hospital day, which is Tuesday. I put on some music and try to read. By the time I have finished the vodka, I am very restless. I dress and go out. Outside, I kill a little time looking at magazines at the newsagent around the corner and buy the latest copy of Moyen Age, then drop into the bakery. I take a fancy for some more of the Bordeaux and go to buy another couple of bottles. When I get back to my apartment, I try to do some work but I cannot sit still, as the English say. I pour another vodka, a stiff one, and light a cigarette. I do not normally smoke this much but I am not exactly myself.

I can think of nothing else but Eddie Brill and that damnable tape. To see yourself like that... I have never been able to rid my mind of the image of myself in the throes of the killing fever. I refuse to think of it. I must not. 

I want to see Martine. Her phone number comes readily to mind; I cannot believe I have not seen her for nearly two months. I hesitate before calling but I need to see her. She answers after only three rings.

"_Allo._"

"Martine, _cherie_. How are you?"

There is a little hesitation. "It has been a little while, Rene. Perhaps I have found someone else."

"You would have called me to tell me to go to hell."

She laughs. "Yes, it's true. You know me very well. Where have you been?"

"In Paris."

"And you want me to believe that you were not seeing someone else?"

"Why would I want to see someone else? I have been preoccupied with work, _c'est tout_. I miss you."

"You miss my bed, you mean."

I laugh. She knows me too. "That too."

"Are you still living in that dreadful little apartment?"

I take a drag on the cigarette. "It's not so bad. And I cannot afford to live in Montmartre like you."

She laughs. "You don't have a rich dead husband. They are useful for something, _non_?"

"Do you want to go for dinner?"

"Would you like me to cook for you?" Her voice is soft and very sexy. 

"I'll bring the wine."

An hour later, I am knocking on Martine's front door. Her house is hidden from the street by a gate with an iron grille, very fashionable, very expensive. It has a tiny front courtyard, very pretty, and a garden on the other side of the house. I can only dream of such a place. I remember to turn off my cell phone - they have a bad habit of disturbing me when I least wish it. When the door opens, she leans on the doorpost and looks at me. 

"You look like hell," she says.

I shrug. "I feel like hell."

"And you expect me to make you feel better?"

I smile. "You always do."

"Then you had best come in." And she reaches for my hand. 

Inside, we kiss on both cheeks and she takes the wine from me to put it in the kitchen. Her house is very comfortable, very chic. I have on jeans and an old blue shirt but I know she will not mind. She wears a pull and loose trousers. She tells me to open the wine. I know where the glasses are kept and fetch them. In the kitchen, supper is already cooking. She lets me taste it and it is delicious. When I give her the wine glass, I know that she is happy to see me. And I her. 

We have known each other for some time. On again, off again. Always I come back to her and she to me. Perhaps one day it will become something more but not yet. My work is too dangerous and it would not be fair. But we are neither of us getting any younger.

Dinner is served at the little table in the kitchen; we are old friends as much as we are lovers. I do the dishes for her afterward while she tends to the fire. Then I join her in the living room. She has lit candles and put on some music. I sit in the corner of the sofa, grateful for the peace, and she curls up in my arms, her back to me. She has changed into something lacy, something blue and very sexy. Silk. It feels wonderful under my hand. I have needed this.

"Something is wrong," she says.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"It is confidential?"

"Of course."

I wrap one arm around her shoulders, feel her soft, warm skin and kiss her hair. The warmth from the fire is wonderful on a wet November night. 

"I love you, you know," she says.

"I know."

We sit like this for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the music. My mind is quiet at last. She knows of Mathilde, knows I did not abandon her. French women find reliable men attractive, or so I am told. Which does not speak well for French men. Martine is special, independent, content. And loving. She and her husband were happy - a rare thing, I think. She is wearing a perfume that she knows I like. Her hair is soft on my face. There is no need for words. 

She moves in my arms, turns toward me with a little sigh and touches my face with her fingers. "Your beard is getting white," she says. 

I laugh. "I'm getting used to it."

She reaches up and takes off my glasses, leans over to put them on the little table beside the sofa, stretching out her slender body. She has taken good care of herself over the years; her movements are still graceful, still lovely. My hand goes to her breast, feeling the nipple under the silk, then slides down along the lines of her stomach and hip. She is still beautiful and I am very fond of her. 

She puts an arm around my neck and kisses me gently. The love she has for me is quiet and soothing. When I am with her, I can forget.

"I do not deserve you," I say.

"Don't talk nonsense. You are a good man. Everyone deserves to be loved." She laughs. "Even me."

I pull her close to me; the warmth of her body thrills me and I feel the familiar ache in my groin. She undoes the buttons on my shirt and slips her hand inside. I have missed her touch. I kiss her deeply; she returns it. My hand slides along her thigh and she moves against it. 

"Do you want to go to bed?" she whispers.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Our love-making is intense, her passion born of love, mine of loneliness and need. 

***

I cannot sleep. She lies beside me, her breathing soft and regular. She has no cares. I trace the lines of her face with my finger, the bones of the cheek, the fine eyebrows, and she wakes.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I did not mean to wake you."

"I was already awake."

She is lying but it is a gentle lie. "Go back to sleep, cherie."

She puts an arm over my chest and rests her head on my shoulder. "Can't you tell me what is troubling you?"

"No. It will be all right."

Is that the truth? 

She is asleep again in minutes but my mind is too troubled. Eventually, I drift off but my dreams are very bad. I see myself raising a sword, my hands drenched in blood, and the Immortal who kneels before me is Adam. I wake up sweating and breathing hard. I am afraid to go back to sleep. When sleep does take me again, always it is the same dream; sometimes it is Rodrig, sometimes Darius, but always then it is Adam. 

Chapter 5

Sunday, November 24, 2002, 10 am

Although I slept eventually, I am exhausted. On the Metro on the way home, I try to think about what to do about Eddie. I could buy him a plane ticket, even find a passport in another name - not that difficult with my connections - but always there is that tape. Once I did not care but now it is very different; now it would hurt others - and now I want to live. And there is no-one to help me.

And I am disturbed by what Eddie told me about a chronicle. I cannot ask Adam about this, since we are pretending that he is not Methos. But he will want to know. Perhaps I should tell him that I have heard a rumour that such a thing exists, pretend that I am telling him because he is involved in the Methos Project. On the other hand, perhaps this is not a good idea since it is likely that he will go to any length to find it and since he is still very ill, he could be reckless, could put himself in danger, perhaps even get himself killed. I cannot make a decision. On anything, it seems.

And I never called back! _Merde!_ _Stupide! Stupide!_ This will not do. I should at least have let Stephen or Joseph know where I would be in case of an emergency. I cannot let myself be so distracted. I find my cell phone in my pocket; it is still turned off. Rene, why do you carry this thing if you never remember to turn it on? I decide to wait until I am home.

When the train arrives at Porte de Vincennes, I get off and hurry through the barriers and up the steps. It is cold and raining. I pull my jacket about me and walk quickly to my apartment. Marie passes me on the stairs and asks me if I heard the noise in the courtyard in the night. I tell her I have been out all night; she says, "_O, la la!_" and laughs. Once inside the apartment, I toss my jacket on the sofa and go to the telephone. I cannot believe my own stupidity. Anything could have happened.

I call Adam's apartment but there is no answer. I leave a message on the machine then call Le Blues. It is still early and it surprises me when Miss Thomas answers it. Although I am not that familiar with her voice, her accent is unmistakable. 

"Good morning, Doctor," she says. I do not get the impression that she is pleased to hear from me.

"I am sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, Miss Thomas, but I have been unable to contact Adam. Do you know where he is?"

There is a little hesitation. "He and Stephen have gone to the zoo."

"The zoo? This early in the day? Adam is usually still asleep in the morning."

"I wouldn't know about his personal habits, I'm afraid. Stephen called me a little while ago to say that Adam wanted to go to the zoo. And the Bois de Boulogne. I expect they'll be gone all day."

I do not like this at all but I can hardly tell her that I think she is lying. "I see. And what time was this?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps half an hour?"

"Is your father there, Miss Thomas? Perhaps I could speak with him."

"Actually, my father is not here, Doctor Galbon. Can I take a message?"

Her tone is very sharp. What is it that you are not telling me, my dear? "When do you expect him?"

"I really can't say. He may not come in at all, in fact. He needs his rest. I'm sure you can understand."

She will tell me nothing; I am wasting my time. "Of course. If Adam comes in, please tell him that I called."

"He's quite well, Doctor. You needn't worry."

When I hang up, I make myself some coffee. While I wait for it, I roll a cigarette and light it. I am disturbed by this. However, I can do nothing about it. And I have other, more immediate concerns.

I must find the tape. And if I cannot find it? I must at least know if Eddie is lying to me, since I am not convinced that he has it. Apres tout, he offered me no proof. If I had had my wits about me on Friday instead of being in a panic like some damned fool, I would have realized that. But it is not too late. I have a choice: I can do as he asks or I can kill him. There is no other way. I cannot turn him over to Gabrieli any more than he can denounce me; we are at an impasse. But I do not like either choice. Before I can decide what must be done, I must know. Where is that tape?!

I fetch my coffee and take off my glasses and lay them on the table while I drink it. Mon dieu. How did I allow it to come to this? I should have searched for that tape years ago. I cannot think why I have been so foolish, so complacent. It was bound to happen; perhaps I did not want to believe it. I finish the cigarette and roll another. 

Two cups of coffee and three cigarettes later, I have something of a plan. I put on the dark pull that I have not worn for some time - I may have to consider surveillance cameras - and find my car keys. I fetch the wooden chest from under the bed, open it and take out the Glock in its case. I had thought never to need it again but it would seem that I must carry some protection, although the idea is abhorrent to me after so many years of believing that I am safe. It is clean and loaded. I put it in my knapsack, pull on my jacket and leave.

I walk to the garage where I keep my car, my head spinning with worry. Although I observe most carefully, I can see no-one who might be following me. When I get into my car, I take the gun in its case out of the knapsack and put it into the glove compartment, noticing my reluctance even to have the thing near me. I have changed so very much these past years. 

I drive to HQ, being certain to drive in a leisurely fashion so that I will not draw the attention of the police or anyone who might be following me, since my mind refuses to dismiss that possibility. But I see nothing. Perhaps I was correct to think that it was Eddie they were watching and that Eddie meant only to frighten me by telling me I was being followed. But I do wonder if they are following Adam; I must warn him that it is possible, although I cannot imagine that he would not recognize a tail.

I come to HQ quite often on a Sunday; my appearance there will not be noteworthy. It is for me the easiest time to look into the file of any Immortal patient I am treating, easier to keep it confidential. Security is used to seeing me come and go; it must not appear to be anything more than that. 

When I drive through the gates, my nerves are not good. I am losing my edge, I see. It no longer thrills me to put myself in danger; perhaps I am growing old. I park in my usual place. Before I get out, I put my cell phone in the glove compartment and lock it. They occasionally search people going in on the weekend now. Gabrieli's orders. The searches are random and it has only happened to me once but I will not take the chance. I pick up the knapsack, get out of the car and go to the front door. Inside the entrance, the guard is new and does not know me. He nods politely.

"Identification, please," he says.

I smile and reach for my wallet, take out my ID card and hand it to him. "Doctor Rene Galbon," I say.

He looks at it, flips it over and hands it back. "Merci, Doctor Galbon. May I know the nature of your business?"

Ah, he is being thorough. Is it because I am who I am, I wonder? "I come quite often on Sundays to research patient files." 

He nods, apparently satisfied. "I must ask you to submit to a brief search, Doctor."

I sigh. "Of course."

He is quick as he frisks me. What is Gabrieli worried about? When he is done, he apologizes for the inconvenience. It seems to be genuine; perhaps he respects professional people.

"May I see the knapsack, please, Doctor?"

I hand him the knapsack, he opens it, searches briefly under the papers and hands it back.

"If you will sign in, please," he says. 

It is standard procedure; nothing to worry about. I sign the log. No doubt M. Gabrieli will be intrigued by my presence here today. 

"Merci. Please go about you business."

I nod and walk past him. I must see the files. I go straight to the offices which house the banks of files and records and go through the door unobstructed. There are files on everyone, Immortals, Watchers - everyone. The room which has the important records, the chronicles of the ancient Immortals, are in a room by themselves, temperature and moisture controlled to preserve the ancient papers, parchments and even papyruses. It has a combination lock and written permission is required by those without the combination to enter. Adam had the combination as a researcher, although they have probably changed it since, and even he was obliged to sign in and out, although I doubt that he always complied. Those chronicles are worth a king's ransom. I do not need to go there; the files which interest me are more mundane, more recent. Eddie's, for one. And my own. 

I find the cabinet of personnel files and open it with my key, a small concession to my need to access them regularly. I do not need to worry about surveillance cameras in here; I notice that Gabrieli does not share the enthusiasm of some of his predecessors for electronic surveillance. Perhaps he realizes that if it comes to that, he has already lost control. 

I find the appropriate section of the alphabet and sift through it. Eddie's file is not here. Perhaps it has been mis-filed. I go through the entire drawer but definitely it is not here. Would it be sitting in someone's out-tray? _Merde!_ Although that is unlikely, now that I think of it. In fact, it is most certainly not out in the open. After Croft denounced Eddie to Gabrieli, Gabrieli likely took the file himself; it will be in his office. And I will not even think of breaking in there.

What else do you have, Monsieur Gabrieli? I look for my own file - that too is missing. I should have expected it. _Mon Dieu._ Is it because I am treating Adam? His questions to me last week were most pressing. Does he suspect that Adam is Immortal? Or worse, that he is Methos? And what does he suspect of me? But I am ahead of myself; perhaps he does not have it. But who else would want my file? My head is beginning to spin.

I look for Mlle Thomas' file and that, too, is missing. And Joseph's, although I have already seen that. Anyone connected to Adam, it would seem. Who else? I know that he does not have Stephen's file because I have it myself. Perhaps it is just as well. 

And Adam's file? Gone. Why does this not surprise me?

The Methos files were never in here. They are kept in the locked room, since he is a special project. Adam has no official access to them but that does not stop him from hacking into the database when he feels so inclined. When one feels outside of society, one does not feel bound by its rules. Has he ever felt bound by society's rules? 

That my own file is gone and probably in Gabrieli's keeping is very disturbing. It means most likely that I am under investigation. There are significant holes in my records; I put them there myself by removing certain reports on my activities in the eighties. I can only guess why he wants that file. And I do not like the answers. If I am not careful, I will let my imagination take me where I do not wish it to go and that might yet be fatal. And I am now inclined to believe that I have been followed, very cleverly, very unobtrusively, but watched, nevertheless. Which brings to mind the remark Marie made to me about a noise in the courtyard last night. If they are indeed watching me, they would know I was elsewhere. Could they have searched my apartment? For what, exactly? My private journals? Dear God! I hope not. They are not there, in any case. There is nothing there that could get me into trouble with Gabrieli; perhaps they were only satisfying themselves of that. Or am I jumping to conclusions and the noise in the courtyard was only Mazout?

Who else? Croft. I might as well know how he fits into all this. Eddie would not have lied about Croft turning him in to Gabrieli; it is exactly the sort of thing he would do. How far would he go? And why not just blackmail Eddie? Of course, Eddie would not be unhappy about putting a bullet through his head and if he were desperate, that is surely what he would do, since Gabrieli is hunting him in any case. It is what I would do. 

Croft's file is also gone. Yes, there is something going on and whatever it is, we are all involved. Perhaps Eddie has done me a favour after all. 

I close the file drawers, leave the records office and go to personnel. I have the password to the database and hack in easily enough. I find Eddie's personal data, his address and telephone number, bank account numbers for his pay cheque. I make a note of everything. I also make a note of Croft's data, just in case, since he appears to be involved.

And I have learned nothing that tells me where I might find the tape. I will have to break into Eddie's place, if possible, but someone is sure to be watching his apartment. I do not wish to involve anyone else, however, and I must exhaust other possibilities first. And something occurs to me. Eddie told Gabrieli that Croft's accusations were offered merely as revenge, that they were unfounded. If that is all, why did Eddie run? Just because he was being watched? _Je m'en doute._ What did you not tell me, Eddie? Gabrieli would have brought Croft in for a little talk... and Croft...? Croft would have proof. And Eddie would run. Yes, that makes sense. And what, exactly, would constitute proof? Documents can be forged, people lie but... Photographs. Tapes. 

I leave Personnel and go straight to Finance. I must be careful now. I may have reason to be looking through files and databases but I have no legitimate reason to be in Finance. Before going through the main door into the Finance section, I pull my gloves out of my knapsack. There is no reason to leave fingerprints behind. Fortunately, the outer door is not locked. I slip around it and close it behind me. I should be safe enough. The new guard will not know how long I usually take and he is unlikely to come to look for me. And with luck, no-one else will come to HQ today. It could be very awkward. 

Croft has been part of the organization for many years and is very competent at what he does. He has risen nearly to Section Head and has his own suite of offices. And, of course, his door is locked. Except that I know where the key is. I once bedded his secretary after a Christmas office party and she told me a great deal about the strange habits of M. Harold Croft. She kept a key in her desk, she told me, since he was prone to forgetting his. And she is still his secretary.

It does not take me long to find the key, exactly where she told me it was, in a cigar box in the bottom of the drawer to her desk. I take off my jacket, take the watch cap out of the pocket, leave the jacket and my knapsack on her chair and put the watch cap on, pulled low. I unroll the neck of my pull to cover my lower face and beard, and open the door. Once inside, I close the door behind me, lock it again and slip the key into my pocket. And if I am not mistaken, there will most certainly be cameras in here; the head of Finance is not so trusting as M. Gabrieli. The guard will remember the jacket and my thinning hair; perhaps if he is shown a surveillance tape of this little intrusion, he will not recognize me. Unfortunately, I can do nothing about my glasses since I cannot see without them. The drapes are closed and I do not put on the light.

I look up, searching for cameras. I see one, in the corner, overlooking the whole room, above the head of the person sitting at the desk, aimed at the door. My entrance will certainly be on that. I put one foot on the cabinet and climb up. I reach it easily and turn it upward. It is easier than fiddling with the mechanism with gloved hands, and faster. On the other hand, I am likely wasting my time since the time will be on the tape and I was the only person to sign the log today. I climb back down. It is unlikely that there are any more 'official' cameras in here. What is hidden behind a panel, perhaps, I cannot know; I will have to take my chances.

I look about me; Croft's office has a beige, impersonal look to it in the dim lighting. The fact that he is meticulous helps the speed of my search. I begin with the top drawer to his large desk: nothing. The large bottom drawer, however, is locked. Very curious. I jimmy the lock with a letter opener. Inside, there is not all that much of current interest, although there is a large envelope of surveillance photos showing Joseph... shooting Horton! - ah, Joseph, how foolish of you - at the bottom of the drawer, and a video tape tossed carelessly on top of the otherwise neat contents. I pick it up; it is labelled 'A.P.'. I put it aside for the moment and finish my search. I find two more large envelopes, containing more photos of Horton, two audiocassettes and several notes in Horton's handwriting. There is one note in a different hand - Croft's, I believe. It reads, 'A.P./J.H. cassette? Search M. Project files'. I finish with the desk and turn on the computer. Ah. As I expected, it is password-locked. I could try to hack in, but that would take time and time is something I do not have. I turn my attention to what is left in the drawer.

There are more tapes than I expected - five or six. Eddie called Croft a weasel but Croft is so much worse than that; he is a cockroach, something which crawls into everything and befouls it. The tapes all have labels on them - two say J.H., one says J.A., another E.B. There is a small monitor and a VCR at a side table and I go to them, put the tape in and turn on the monitor. I fastforward through the tape, looking for content. I go through them all. The J.H. tapes - Horton's - are disturbing, as I expected. I did not expect to see our little meeting about my resignation. It shows me threatening Horton, which I remember only too well, and it shows Eddie Brill rushing up behind me and bringing something - the butt of a gun, I believe - crashing down on my skull. Several times. That accounts for the pool of blood I woke up in, and the concussion; I believe that I will keep that, and the other Horton tape. Ah, Eddie, Eddie... twice you tried to kill me. It must be very galling that I am still alive. And I am not certain whether Horton knew that Croft taped him as much as he did. I suspect not.

The J.A. tape is entertaining, but not relevant to my search. I wonder what Croft found so fascinating about filming Jason Anders and his mistress copulating on his desk. Did he show this tape to Anders' wife? Was his life truly that empty? Or was M. Croft indulging in a little blackmail? That seems to me the more likely considering his sexual preferences. It must have disgusted him, in fact. The Eddie Brill tape (E.B) was all filmed in Croft's office. It mostly consists of Eddie threatening Croft. I have never been much of a lip-reader, but Eddie's meaning is quite clear. I can see that it is unlikely that I have disabled all the cameras in here. 

I glance at my watch. If I am too long, the guard will come looking for me. I am surprised to find that I have already been in the building more than an hour.

I put in the A.P. tape last, wondering what Croft could possibly have on Adam. And what are these cassette tapes that Croft was writing about? When I play it, I see little. The time and date index, and the condition of the room tell me that this is Horton's office around the time that he showed me his tape of me. And what is this? More of the same, perhaps? Ah, Adam, Adam, what did you do? What does Croft have on you?

The flickering, grey screen shows me Horton, moving about his office in the dark and then stepping out the door. I presume that he locks it; he always did when I was with him. This tape is from a different angle from that of our argument. Is this from a different camera? I feel nauseous. This must be the meeting that Eddie told me about - the trap that Horton set for Methos. I must remember that, whatever happened here, Adam survived it. My heart is racing but I scan forward. My question about the camera is answered when the office door half opens and Adam slips sideways through it. Before anything else, he goes over to the bookcase, pulls out a section of books and takes out a small camera. He does something with it, rewinds it perhaps, and puts it back. He wears gloves so as not to leave prints; very professional. At the desk, he rifles quickly and efficiently through the drawers; I am most impressed. Ah, but then, he may have far more practice than I, non? 

I see him look up, startled, and duck down behind the desk, under the range of the camera. The door opens, and Horton enters. Has he forgotten something? But no, he does not turn on the light. Instead, he calls out. Adam stands up from behind the desk, keeping one hand behind his back, hiding a file. No... not a file. A gun. Horton speaks, demanding an explanation for Adam's presence, no doubt. He looks angry, but not frightened. I do not think he is yet aware of the gun. 

I cannot see Adam's face until he comes out from behind the desk. Then, he turns and I can see his profile; he looks most disgusted. He cocks his head to one side and speaks in what is surely a sarcastic tone. I almost wish for the sound on this, though it is better that Croft could not hear the conversations that he filmed. Horton smiles smugly and reaches inside his coat. 

That is when Adam brings out the gun from behind his back, and aims it at Horton's head. Even in the dimness of the street lighting from the window, Horton sees what it is. He looks surprised and freezes in place. He would not be the first to underestimate Adam Pierson. Adam speaks. Taking his hand out of his coat, Horton raises both hands, slowly. Adam speaks again - I wish I could hear what he is saying. Horton's response is angry. Adam smirks at it and jerks his head at the desk. This meeting is not going at all the way that Eddie imagined it. Adam came for his chronicle, and he expected to get it, trap or no trap.

Adam says a word and I am stunned. I rewind and watch that part again. And again. Yes. That is what he said: my name - Rene. Adam, you fool, what were you thinking? You said you never got involved. Horton laughs. As usual with him, there is no humour on his face, only scorn. His answer is clearly negative. Adam's face goes blank. I suck in my breath. I know that look. Few still living do. It was on his face that day I told him that Horton had held a gun to my head. He moves forward, shoving the gun in Horton's face. 

Horton sees the danger. He falters, but cannot drop all of his manner. There is too much habit in it. He lets his body relax in place and smiles more gently. When he speaks, it must be in a fatherly tone. I cannot imagine what he was thinking at that moment, but I can amuse myself thinking that Croft must have pissed himself even as he kept filming. Croft is a small man and Adam is far beyond his experience.

Adam's expression does not change, as indeed it would not. He is too angry to be mollified. Just as I am wondering how this impasse ended, both Adam and Horton jump, as if hearing a loud noise, and look towards the door. Horton starts to go behind the desk, but Adam grabs him, shaking his head and speaking to him. Adam is very, very agitated, shaking Horton for emphasis. Horton stares back at him, looking horrified. He does not resist when Adam shoves him toward the door. I watch them leave, more or less in agreement. The tape continues for some minutes after the door closes behind them, but there is nothing more to see. I rewind and watch it again and am no more the wiser.

Except for one small detail. The date and time show that the tape was recorded some four hours after my own visit to Horton's office - the same day that Horton showed me the tape in his hotel room. Had Adam intended to kill Horton before I did? Or was it merely to warn him of the consequences of making my life miserable? Perhaps one day I shall ask him.

And where is my tape, the one which Eddie claims to have? Obviously, it belongs with the others here. Does Croft have it or does Eddie? If I were to make a bet, it would be on Croft. Was it here with the others? Did Eddie know it was here, perhaps try to steal it? Perhaps Croft had the foresight to remove it for safekeeping? Was I to be his next blackmail victim? It is entirely possible. And why did he not try it before now? Because he is afraid of me, of course. I am much more dangerous than Eddie ever was and Croft is a coward. He must believe I am still reckless enough to kill him if he were to try such a thing. 

And I must leave. I gather up the tapes and envelopes. Better by far that I have them in my possession. I slip through the door and lock it. Then I replace the key in the secretary's desk and stow the things in my knapsack. I rearrange my clothing and leave. Outside the door, I take off my gloves and put them back in my knapsack. So far, so good.

On my way out, the guard nods at me and notes the time in his log. 

"Sign out, please, Doctor."

I suppose I can live with this. I sign in the out-column against my previous signature. 

"Are you taking any materials with you, Doctor Galbon?" he asks, eyeing my knapsack.

I do not answer immediately. "No," I say. "Nothing." _Apres tout,_ the 'materials' I am taking with me never officially existed, _n'est-ce pas_? 

I get into my car and drive out through the gate. I must stop somewhere and consider what to do next. I am very hungry and I need a cigarette. I take my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one. As I drive back into Paris, I have time to think about what I found. So much... But I must stop somewhere to eat. It will give me a chance to calm myself. It is a long time since I did such things. 

I stop at the first place I see, a small bistro I have never seen before. I park a street away and walk back, my knapsack over my shoulder. As I walk, I look carefully about me but see nothing to worry me. I am becoming paranoid, perhaps, but it is best to be safe, _non_? Outside the bistro, I flick the cigarette butt into the gutter and go in. It is pleasant inside, if a little dim. There are a few customers, reading the newspaper over coffee, deep in conversation, sharing something amusing - ordinary people. It is refreshing. I choose a place toward the back and settle in, my knapsack on the chair beside me. When the waiter comes, I order something substantial; it might be a while before I have the chance again. And I order a cognac; I need it.

While I wait, I light another cigarette before I notice the sign. _Merde! Defense de fumer_ - no smoking. I pinch it between my fingers and put it in my pocket to smoke later. The waiter comes with the cognac and I thank him. Two tables away, a woman watches me; it makes me nervous. Don't be a fool, Rene - she is merely lonely. Without a cigarette in my hands, I am at a loss. There is a newspaper on the chair at the next table and I pick it up and open it. I am not really interested in the news but I wish to be occupied while I wait; it would not do for the woman to decide to speak to me. 

My food comes - a plate of spaghetti bolognese, _salade noicoise_ and bread - and I eat with pleasure. But it does not keep me from thinking of what I have uncovered. I begin to understand why Horton left me alone after that little 'misunderstanding' of ours. Adam, you gallant fool, but I thank you. It would seem that I owe you more than I realized. 

And Joseph. I will give him those photographs; they will disturb him, of course, but that cannot be helped. He has a right to have them to destroy with his own hands. I did not realize who it was who shot Horton until today; I did not give Horton a chance to tell me. He arrived at my door - _incroyable!_ - wet and bloody, asking that I shelter him. He was desperate. I told him to go to hell. Unfortunately, he knew about Mathilde. He threatened me with the tape, with harm to my daughter; it was the most foolish thing he could have done. I would have shot him then and there if I had not had my child with me, and Nikki. I told him that if anything happened to either of them, I would hunt him down and I would not miss. He must have believed me for I never saw him again. 

And now I know why Eddie ran, I think, _non_? That tape. It would seem that M. Croft has been most acquisitive over the years. It is most likely that he saw it as a way of protecting himself from very dangerous people. I do believe I need to pay him a visit and remind him that I am still just as dangerous. Except that it is no longer true, of course. Now I have a child to think of; it changes a great deal. He must not know. 

And what of my tape? I am convinced that Croft must have it, possibly at his home. I finish eating, take a mouthful of the brandy and open the knapsack. I take out my notebook and look for Croft's address. It is an apartment on some street I do not recognize. Easy enough to find. I wonder if M. Croft stays home on Sundays. I am about to find out.

The waiter removes my plates and I ask him for the bill. I would like another brandy but I do not have the time and I need a cigarette. When the bill comes, I pick up my knapsack and go to the cashier, pay the bill and leave. Outside, the sky is already getting dark and it is raining. I light a cigarette, pull my jacket close and walk toward the car, keeping my head down against the rain. I look at my watch; it is already gone three o'clock. 

As I turn the corner, I look up without raising my head. There is a young man in a doorway with headphones. Was he there before? He glances briefly in my direction and looks away again immediately. I do not alter my pace. Before I pass him, he walks across the street, a little too quickly. I have surprised him. They are recruiting them very young these days, I see. It is not music he hears in those headphones; it is instructions. He is not alone. I pretend not to notice. And now I remember where I saw him. He was in the wine shop where I buy my Bordeaux. Ah, Gabrieli... you really do not trust me, I see. Still, now I know.

The young man gets into a car across the street and starts the engine. With a little luck, he will think I have not noticed and will follow me. A blue Citroen. Dirty. I will watch for it. I take my time getting into the car; let them believe I have noticed nothing. The Citroen pulls away slowly. When I leave, someone else will pick up the tail. I am amused. And worried, of course. I wonder if they have only just found me. 

I reach across to the glove compartment and take out the gun. I remove it from its case and tuck it into my belt; the silencer goes into my pocket. It has come to this. I put the case back into the glove compartment, then light a cigarette. I cannot be in a hurry. I start the engine and pull into the street. Now I shall need to lose the tail. I drive for a few blocks, taking my time, watching for my opportunity. A black Honda has moved in behind me, three cars back. I turn a corner then turn again. He is still there. I pull to the side of the road and take a map of Paris out of the glove compartment. I make a show of opening it, pretending to look for something, a legitimate reason to stop, to be ducking down the wrong streets. It happens all the time and I am unfamiliar with this part of Paris. The black car drives past and the blue Citroen pulls to the curb several spaces behind me. I must be careful. If they think I have noticed them, someone else will be assigned to me and I will be obliged to begin again. When I lose them, it must be seen to be through their own incompetence. Which may be difficult; they are really quite good if I have not spotted them before.

Before Gabrieli, there was no Internal Affairs. The man is cautious in the extreme, perhaps, but not without good reason. The European Region was becoming very corrupt; the Hunters were not the only problem. In M. Gabrieli's shoes, I would have done the same thing. I suspect, in fact, that this is why he was chosen to head the European Region by the other Regional Directors, although they are not without their own internal difficulties. It is a sign of the times, I suppose. 

I look for Croft's street on the map and find it in the 16th Arrondissement. Good. It is not that far. I wait until a car is between me and the Honda, then toss the map onto the seat and pull out ahead of it. I turn left and right again and pull into the first alley I see. When the blue Honda passes me, I wait for a minute, then drive into the courtyard of an apartment block and around the corner, out of sight. I will stay here for a few minutes. No doubt there will be surveillance at Croft's apartment; I prefer to see for myself. I smoke another cigarette before leaving. That should be enough time. 

The rain is harder now, and it is dark with heavy cloud. On the way to Croft's apartment, I try to remember what I know of him. Very little. I have not paid attention to him all these years. Even when I was with the Hunters, I did not know that he was involved in any way. But I did not notice very much of anything of real importance then. I saw only the Hunters and the Hunted; the power behind it did not concern me. And it should have. Very foolish, and a mistake I shall never make again.

I have seen no files on Croft; I had no reason to look. His secretary told me that he was a homosexual, although I suspected it; her attitude was not very sympathetic. I realize now that it was the man she disliked, not his private amusements. I never heard it anywhere else, now that I think of it. He was most discreet, it would seem, or he would not have risen so high. A lonely life in such a callous world. I meet them in my practice occasionally. 'Them'. A bit harsh, _non_? For the most part, I have found them gentle and forgiving but troubled. A difficult existence. 

I stop for a red light and watch in my rear view mirror. I seem to be rid of my tail.

The presence of the Anders tape in Croft's drawer tells me something. Anders was neither an Immortal nor a Hunter. Nor was he a field agent. Why was that tape there at all? And the Anders affair has been over for some time. His indiscretions were hardly a secret and the tape would have been quite useless for blackmail. It was... explicit. Very explicit. And the footage was of the fine body of M. Anders, not of his lovely paramour. Ah. I understand. What a sad little man you are, M. Croft. And how you must have hated us all. 

I begin to see the picture. He is a man attracted to power, who enjoys wielding power in a world in which he is otherwise powerless. Association with the Hunters gave him a vicarious outlet for his anger and frustration. And he was important to them; they must come to him for money, for weapons. It is speculation, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Horton seems to have given him a great deal of power and not a little trust. Horton would have given him my tape for safekeeping after I showed up to try to take it by force and it gave him ideas. For one thing, it gave him power over me, and he most certainly hated and feared me. My reputation with women would have been enough to disgust him; perhaps he thought it disrespectful. It is not unusual for male homosexuals to have respect for women, after all. All in all, he must have seen my behaviour as intolerable. And... was he so far wrong? 

I was a murderer; he was not. I was often drunk and whored with women; he remained chaste and discreet. In his mind, he was my better, my superior. He was better than all of us and he proved it to himself by taking videos and photographs of us in our murderous acts. Even Joseph is a murderer in his eyes. 

And why Adam? Why indeed? That tape does not show a murderer. It shows a man confronting one - and surviving. Was that the point? And Adam is an attractive man, attractive to M. Croft, _peut-etre_? That affair was so long ago and yet the tape is there, on top of the others. Yes, there is a pattern. And when I find you, M. Croft... what else will I find?

I finish the cigarette and drive onto the street. I see nothing to worry me but now that I know, I will watch for others. It has been so long since I have needed to be so cautious; it is most disturbing. 

I do not go directly to Croft's apartment but drive around the streets a little, stop for gas, chat with the attendant. Nothing hurried. When I am within two streets of the address, I park and sit for a while, smoking a cigarette. There is nothing to make me suspicious. When I finish the cigarette, I get out of the car, leaving my knapsack under the seat. It is still raining and I pull my collar up. There is a little park and I walk through it. On the other side, there are some shops and I go into one to buy another packet of cigarettes. I pick up a magazine near the shop window and pretend to glance through it. I can see M. Croft's apartment block - and in front of it, a dirty blue Citroen. Ah. This is where they have come. I purchase the magazine and leave the shop. I do not look in their direction but go back through the park and get into my car. It is unlikely that they did not see me. I drive away immediately. 

****

Chapter 6

Back at home, I change out of my pull into a light one and put the holster on my belt, sliding the gun into it. It is familiar - and it is not a feeling I enjoy. I make some coffee. While I drink it, I call Le Blues Bar. Mademoiselle Thomas answers it. Where is Joseph?

"Ah, Doctor. How was your day?" 

"Uneventful, Miss Thomas. Have you heard from Stephen or Adam?"

"No, I haven't." This time, she sounds worried but she cannot be more worried than I. "I'm sure they're fine."

_Mon Dieu_. Something has gone very wrong. "I will come there."

"No! No, I'm sure it will all work out."

"Please do not play games with me, Miss Thomas. This is very serious; I am quite sure you know that. I will be there in less than an hour."

"All right. I'll be here."

I light another cigarette, finish my coffee, put my jacket back on and leave the apartment. I take the knapsack with me, with its contents. It would be dangerous to leave it here if they come to search again. And I am quite sure that they did search this place. They have been very careful not to disturb anything that I would notice. The gun feels strange in the small of my back. It has been a long time.

As I walk back to the Metro, my nerves are very bad. I finish the cigarette and go down the steps. At the barrier, I realize that my _carnet_ of tickets is finished and I stop to buy another one. There is a ten-euro note in my wallet but I have forgotten to go to the bank machine and there is nothing else. Even this small thing shows me my mind is elsewhere. I give the note to the ticket seller while I try to remember the line I will need to go to Le Blues. I do not go there very often. I take the _carnet_ and the change and go through the barrier. I go to the map on the wall and find that I must change at Bastille. Now I remember. I wish they allowed smoking but at least the trip will not be a long one. 

I wait for the train, pacing along the platform. _Calme-toi_, Rene. You must think. Has Adam decided that the therapy is too much for him and run off? He is not in his right mind and almost anything can happen. Was he hallucinating again and just wandered away? He was behaving strangely on Thursday and I was a fool to think it was only fatigue. Damn Stephen! He was not to let Adam out of his sight. 

When the train comes, I get on. I am very distracted and almost forget to get off at Bastille. I am not even thinking about it until I notice the murals on the walls of the station and recognize where I am. I push the handle on the door to open it just in time. As I walk down the tunnels to the other line, I am very worried. Has Joseph found out? We have only known each other since this affair with Adam and I doubt that he trusts me; he is not a man who trusts easily - Watchers are never very trusting, I have noticed. He will have done a little digging, a little thinking... It is possible, now that I think of it, that his inquiries have been the perfect opportunity for any Hunter who is still my enemy - and which of those Hunters still within the Organization is not? - to finish me once and for all before I go to Gabrieli myself. Or am I seeing Hunters behind every lamppost today? If it is true that Gabrieli has offered amnesty, I am in grave danger from those who hold grudges against me. Who else knows about that tape? Why did I not see this before? 

By the time I reach the next platform, I am sweating, even though the air is cool, and I need a cigarette. A security patrol of one man and one woman is in the station with dogs. The Metro is a prime target for terrorists. My spine stiffens at the sight; it reminds me that I am being hunted in a very real sense, and my life may be at stake. _Mon Dieu._ What is it like for Adam who must feel this way every waking moment, his illness making it ten times worse than usual? How do they live like this? And to think that I would have been the one hunting him had I known all those years ago. You have much to answer for, Rene. 

When the train comes, I get on. The Metro is quiet on Sundays and I have a carriage to myself save for a woman with a dog. The dog is lying quietly on the floor, his head on his paws. He looks at me without moving and his mistress smiles graciously as I sit down. 

And if Joseph found out? He would have left immediately, with Adam, to keep him safe. Is this what has happened? It is entirely possible. If he has, he would fear for Adam's life - for Methos' life, for surely Joseph knows that much about him. They are very close friends, after all. At the very least, he understands that if Adam hears that I was once a Hunter, there will be no more therapy. Not with me and probably not with anyone. He will have lost all trust. He may even kill me himself. Is that what this is about? I am not thinking very clearly. Perhaps Joseph was as tired as Stephen and I and has merely taken a day to himself. He is not to be faulted for that.

My relationship with Joseph has not been very smooth. I first heard of him after he made inquiries at Sean's hospital, asking hypothetical questions of a colleague of mine about how to handle a 'friend' who was having difficulties. At least, that is how the message was relayed to me. Since the request came from a Watcher, my colleague assumed that the 'friend' was an Immortal or another Watcher and referred the matter to me. When I realized he was talking about Adam, I was alarmed. My fears, it would seem, were not unfounded.

The dog whines a little and his mistress hushes him. It brings me back to the real world. I look at the map overhead. Two more stations. The woman and the dog get off at the next one and some teenagers get on, laughing and chattering to one another. So normal. I feel strange, isolated. I live a very narrow life, with few friends. But that is my own fault. When this is over... Will it ever be over? I could be dead soon if I am not careful and what would happen to my Mathilde then? I cannot think of its being over just now.

I get off at the next station and go through the barrier. Once outside, I light a cigarette gratefully. I pull my jacket around me in the wind and head for Le Blues, a couple of streets away. 

My first meeting with Joseph was... difficult. I knew that he had not been expecting me. I suppose I should have warned him but there was not the time. When I heard what Joseph had told my colleague, the seriousness of Adam's condition was obvious. It was urgent beyond what Joseph understood. I did some brief research into Joseph's background, I read his reports, found the trial documents - _une affaire degoutante_ - asked questions, but there was so little time and my preparations were not as I would have liked. What I had read told me that Joseph was unlikely to welcome my interference. 

Adam and I had begun therapy - such as it was - although the full-blown crisis was still days away. I contacted the American hospital where he had been treated and they told me of his attempted suicide and the episode of psychotic mania which was part of it. They were surprised, I think, that he was still alive. The attempt had been a very serious one, not a 'cry for help'. It was disturbing. They have sent me the report and I have read it with sorrow. Adam had missed an appointment and I went to find him at Le Blues. He was not there but at last I met Joseph.

"Wondered when you were gonna get around to looking this place up," he said when I introduced myself. His manner was not surly but it told me that he did not trust me. Adam had not told me that Joseph had lost his legs but I had found his history in the files. An admirable man. And I completely understand his dislike of my profession. No doubt there were attempts to help him 'adjust' to his disability after a healthy and vigorous youth. And no doubt he found them demeaning. I would myself, I think. He shook my hand but it was only for the sake of good manners.

"I have known Adam for many years," I said. I was sure he knew that. He is a Watcher; he knows how to find out these things. And I am sure he knows that Adam is Methos. They are too close for that not to have become known. It explained Joseph's protective, almost paternal attitude. Adam was not only his friend but the son he never had. I would have to keep that in mind always when dealing with him. 

He showed me to a table at the back of the bar and made a signal to the waiter. He sat down heavily in the other chair and rested his cane beside the seat. It was weighing on him, I could see. "If you'd like a drink, you're welcome. On the house."

I shook my head. "Thank you, but this is not a social call. A coffee, if you have it. Black with some milk on the side."

The waiter arrived, not that nervous young man I had met here when I first went there, and Joseph asked for a coffee for me and a Scotch for himself.

I lit a cigarette and offered him one.

"Nah. Gave them things up years ago. Hauling yourself around with your arms gets harder if your lungs aren't up to scratch. But don't let me stop you."

The waiter came with Joseph's Scotch and my coffee and we said nothing until he had left. The conversation would concern Adam Pierson, not for the ears of the hired help.

"This is business?"

I stirred the milk into my coffee. "Adam did not come for his session yesterday. It is not the first time. And he did not telephone."

He shrugged. "Patients must blow off sessions all the time. It's not like he's never gonna come again."

"You do not understand perhaps, M. Dawson. Adam's condition is very precarious. I will lay the cards on the table for you. When I went to see Adam the first time to propose that he consent to therapy, he was unable to hold the thread of the conversation. I had to draw his attention back to the present and it was obvious that his mind had been drifting outside of our surroundings, _vous comprenez_? He was not there. This is very bad; it will only get worse."

"He gets a little distracted." He was not telling me everything; he knew exactly what I was talking about. He had seen it for himself, _sans doute_. He spends much more time with Adam than I could hope to do; he was in the best position to observe. If he had seen nothing, it was because he wanted to see nothing - and I did not think that Joseph would fool himself over such a matter.

"Do you know where he is now?"

He took a drink from the Scotch. "Home, I guess. I wasn't expecting him." His manner was a little too casual; he was worried, though less than I, I suspected. 

"I must ask you," I said, "if you know of his previous stay in hospital?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I found out about it. It was in a file that somebody gave me."

"_Bon_. Then you know how serious that was."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But he got over that,"

"No, he did not. He did not continue the therapy and now he is headed there again."

He sat back in his chair and a look of defiance came over his face. "He doesn't need to go to hospital. He's got you working on it and me watching his back. He'll get through this."

"Then why is it that I have the impression, M. Dawson, that you do not believe this yourself? Did you see something that I should know about?"

He sighed and drained the Scotch. I was not sure that he would answer me but his concern for Adam overcame his reluctance. His face is very expressive; it was all there. "Yeah, I saw something."

"_Bon_. What did you see?"

He looked down at his glass. What he saw had given him some pain and his face showed it. "He... er... he just kinda blanked out. Told me he was reliving something... only he got it wrong. It wasn't like that." 

I took a drag on the cigarette to give him some room to think. Sometimes when I am anxious, I push too hard. That would not help. "He told you what he saw?"

He shook his head. "Sort of. He was talking about Kalas and about me and Don but I wasn't in Paris when that went down."

I shrugged. "It is simple enough. The death of Don Salzer troubled him deeply. I remember. I was most concerned for him and took him for a beer after Don's funeral. I had hoped to see him regularly but he disappeared after that. He cares for you. His mentor was brutally murdered; now he fears for you and you were on his mind, _c'est tout._"

He smiled but the sadness in his face was deep. "Yeah, I guess."

"Did he seem disoriented?"

He shrugged again. He did not want to speak of these things and I could not blame him. It is never easy for the relatives and if Adam can be said to have any family, Joseph is that to him. "Yeah, I guess. I had to tell him where he was but he seemed to pull out of it just fine. Haven't you ever kinda lost track of where you were? You know, like when you're driving? I know I have and I sure as hell ain't nuts."

"What you observed was a 'dissociative episode'. It is very serious. I want to put him in hospital where he can be cared for before it gets any more serious, before he becomes perhaps suicidal again."

He banged the table with his fist. "No! Christ, no!" He shook his head and his anger was obvious. "I can't let that happen."

"I must insist," I said. My own anger was growing. There was not time for this. Could he not see that? "It is to keep him safe while his mind rests and heals itself. You can understand this, _non_?"

"No! I promised him: no hospital. I swore I wouldn't let it happen, and I keep my word."

"Then you are misguided, Joseph. You mean well but it is misguided."

"'Misguided'?! You're so full of shit! I know about that little stay on the psych ward, how they had him strapped down and shot full of some heavy-duty drugs. It only made him worse, goddammit!" He jabbed his finger in the air at me. "No way I'm letting that happen to him again. He told me about that flying monkey thing. He's nowhere near that bad. I'm here for him. I can handle it."

I stubbed out the cigarette and looked at him. How was this up to him? What was he not telling me? "You will pardon me for saying it, but you are not the professional. He suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I can help him but he needs care."

"Yeah, well there is no way, Rene. I told him I'd never let it happen."

"Then I will have no choice but to commit him and I do not wish to do this."

He shook his head again. He would fight me all the way. "Oh, no. You can't do that. He made me his Guardian Advocate this week and it's all legal and correct. You'll have to go through me and I won't commit him to no damned hospital."

"_C'est absurde_! He is not competent to decide his own care and you do not have the knowledge. I treat Immortals; it is what I know how to do better than anyone else. I am his best hope. Their care is much more difficult, much more complex and Sean's hospital is a very safe place. You must allow me to do this."

He looked at me as though I had struck him. "How do you get the idea he's Immortal? Did he tell you that?"

"_Oh, mon Dieu!_ Do not try to fool me on this, Joseph. You know that he is Immortal, just as I do. If we are to help him, we must not pretend with each other. It is foolish."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't trust you. You just show up one day and Hey, Presto! you're his shrink and what you say goes? Fuck you!"

"How does this help Adam?" Stubbornness always makes me very angry and I was almost shouting. "He must be our first concern, not your ego and not mine." 

His face was becoming red in his frustration with me. We are perhaps too much alike in this. "I checked up on you," he said, his eyes narrow. "You're what you say you are, only there's squat about you in the late eighties, early nineties when you were supposed to be getting to know Adam. You wanna tell me what you were up to? I can find out. Maybe then I'll trust you."

I had expected it, of course, but it is always a shock to hear it. My temper got the better of me and I stared at him. "We are not here to discuss my private life. Do you know where Adam is or do you not?"

He stared back. Then he shrugged and sat back in the chair. "Yeah, what the hell. It's a reasonable request. I can call, I guess."

"Thank-you."

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. "The bookshop," he said while we were waiting. There was a frown on his face. After a few moments, his face relaxed. "Where the hell have you been?" he said into the thing. "I've got your buddy, Rene, in my bar and he is bullshit. He said you blew off your meeting with him yesterday. I thought you told me you were seeing him today."

I lit another cigarette while I waited.

"Right," he said. His voice was quite neutral but his expression was worried. "Well, I think you'd better come down here and explain that to Rene in person. Somehow, I don't think he's gonna buy that story coming from me, and I don't think he's gonna leave here until he hears it from you." Another pause. "Just get your butt down here."

When he put the cell phone back into his pocket, he was very... subdued? 

"Is he all right?'

He shook his head. "He didn't know what day it was. He's coming over."

I smoked for a few moments before replying. He needed time to think and I did feel very sorry for him. He loves Adam; now I see this every time I see them together. I am not sure it is entirely healthy, but in Adam's condition it is perhaps what he needs. Once he is well, their relationship will become more adult and less paternal. It does no harm for Adam to feel that he is loved, although he finds it difficult to deal with.

"Do you understand now how serious this is?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. I know. I didn't mean to give you a hard time. You've got his best interests at heart. You want another coffee while we wait?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He signalled to the waiter again. 

"Is there anything else you can tell me," I asked him. It would help him to talk; perhaps I could reassure him. "What was your impression of him when he had this flashback?"

"I guess what got me most was that he wasn't upset by it, you know? I figured it wasn't his first. And I asked him."

"And?"

"He's been flashing on Alexa, too. You know about her?"

"Of course."

The waiter came with our Scotch and coffee. I needed to be alert, otherwise I would have asked for a cognac. I stubbed the cigarette out.

He turned the glass in his hands before going on. "I'd known her pretty much all her life. They met at my place. I dunno. I wanted him to think twice about it, told him she wasn't for him, but I never saw a guy so in love. Kinda ripped my heart out."

"'_La folie de l'amour'_. We all pay the price."

"You got that right."

He sipped the Scotch. I stirred the milk into my coffee, wondering what else he had not told me. It would have been very foolish to bring up the subject of Methos with a man I had just met, a man whose emotions were raw. He was afraid; so was I. Adam's illness made him very vulnerable. And I had my own reasons, reasons to do with penance and redemption but I could not have spoken to him about that. And I care quite genuinely what happens to Adam; this is not a selfish thing I do. He is my friend.

"He will be all right, Joseph. We must keep him safe; I must insist that the clinic is the best place for him." His head came up ready to object. "But I will not go against his own wishes if I think other arrangements can be made. But surely, you understand the difficulty. The therapy is not working fast enough and he is hallucinating again; what happens to him if another Immortal should find him?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to talk him into it. You're on your own. We can work something out. He can stay at my place."

I shook my own head. I can be just as stubborn; I am French, apres tout. "No, Joseph. That is not realistic. He is much stronger than you are and you are not exactly quick on your feet."

"He doesn't want drugs, either," he said.

"I know. He tells me this every time we meet. But I keep a syringe with Haldol just in case. He is also stronger and faster than I am." I shrug and light another cigarette. "It is the drug for the emergency treatment of psychotic mania. How does this make you feel?"

He tossed his hand at me. "Yeah, I guess. I see your point."

"Bon. At least we agree on something."

"When did you figure out he was Immortal?

I drank some of the coffee while I considered the question. I would keep what I knew to myself for the moment. "After the Ahriman affair. I believe he had his first death then. Can you enlighten me?" It was not a fair question but it gave him some room. 

"He's never told me the details. But, yeah, it was about then. Maybe one day..." 

And maybe one day we will be able to stop lying to each other. 

We were quiet for a while after that. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes, then drank my coffee; he sipped his Scotch. I put my glasses back on and lit another cigarette. We talked of simple things, feeling each other out. I do not know that we can ever be friends exactly. Perhaps after this is over. I liked him that day but his wariness was obvious. He told me about his daughter; I was tempted to tell him of mine, two fathers talking of their children. He is proud of her, as am I of Mathilde. 

In about half an hour, the door opened and Adam came in. He saw us and came toward our table.

"Hey, Joe... Rene." 

Neither of us answered him. 

"Uh, look, Rene. I'm really sorry about yesterday. I got my days mixed up. A lot has been happening this week, you know?" He smiled and giggled a little. His nervousness was very obvious. 

It is what he calls 'doing cute'. He knows that it does not fool me and I doubt that it fooled Joseph. It concerned me that he should be playing this little game. "No, I do not know," I said, "because you have not been telling me anything significant in our sessions." I had no intention of making him feel comfortable. I was angry and he had to know that; he had to start taking responsibility for his own therapy. At the very least, he had to stop hiding things from me.

He said nothing. The door opened again and a man came in, obviously a companion. From Adam's reaction, I understood that this was an Immortal. Joseph had drawn the same conclusion. Then I recognized him from his file. Stephen Keane. We had not met but I had studied his case, since Adam once tried to take his head. He was a patient of Sean's back in the eighteenth century.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. I did not get the impression that he was really aware of what was happening. And now I understood the 'cute' act. It was for Stephen's benefit. 

"Sure. Absolutely fine," Adam said. Stephen would have had to be blind not to see that as a lie. 

"I think you should come up to the clinic for a few days," I said.

"Absolutely not." The grin and the innocence were gone. Now it was getting deadly serious. He did not give a damn what we thought. This, at least, was an honest reaction. 

"Adam, if you are having flashbacks with complete dissociation from reality, you need to be in a safe place. Your current situation is not appropriate for the level of treatment that you need." I could not put it plainer than that. It was in the open and we would deal with it. Now. However it went.

He sat down in the chair across from me, folded his arms and slouched down. Defiance. Anger. Honest reactions, if a little childish. "Fine. Lock me up then."

Now he was being foolish. It made me angrier. "Joseph refuses to give his consent," I said. He might as well know that the matter had come up, that I knew what the arrangement was. "Besides, it would never work without your cooperation. These sessions of ours are not mind games, Adam. I do not wish to trick you, only help you."

He straightened a little in his chair. I was making sense to him. I doubted that he would consent, even so. "Rene, I have no problem with accepting your help, but what I said before goes - no drugs and no hospitalization."

I was not surprised but it still exasperated me. He was not thinking in his own best interests. "Adam, this is not a safe situation for you."

"Are you saying that I might hurt someone? Joe, maybe?" Ah, so that was his fear. 

I stubbed out the cigarette. "No. You are more likely to harm yourself, or let yourself be exposed to harm, than do harm at this point."

"Then, I will take that chance." It was exactly as I expected. But it was not a rational decision. A man in his mental state cannot be trusted to decide in his own best interest. That is why such matters are left to the attending physician. Myself. Only in this instance, Adam had anticipated me with that Guardian Advocate paper. It was exasperating. But I understood completely that he did not want to be locked up and tied down. As an Immortal, one who had survived so long by his wits, it was intolerable. I could not have made him understand that I knew this; I could not tell him that I knew who he was.

"Um, what is going on?" Stephen had come to the table. He came to Adam's left, a significant position of non-aggression in an Immortal. I think that it was at that moment that Adam realized I knew that he himself was Immortal. Bon. That was out of the way.

"Rene is my shrink," Adam told him without taking his eyes off me. "He works for the people who took over after Sean Burns died." Adam was slipping. We were not to know that Stephen was an Immortal; mentioning Sean Burns was a mistake: how would he know who the late Sean Burns was if he were mortal and not a Watcher? And it was a mistake he would not normally have made. "Rene thinks I should check into his psychiatric facility until I stop having vacations from reality like the one you saw at the bookshop today."

Joseph was horrified; it was finally hitting home. I was saddened but resolved. Adam would have to be placed in care somehow. 

"Christ! You had another one?" Joseph said. 

"Rene, Joe," Adam said, hooking a thumb in Stephen's direction, "this is Stephen Keane. He was a friend of Sean Burns."

"I see," I said. Joseph made no comment, perhaps for my benefit. Undoubtedly he knew who Stephen was.

"You're in therapy?" Stephen asked. 

"Yep," Adam said. It was bravely said; he is a stoic. He does accept his condition, even if he is unwilling to cooperate in his care. I have always known that about him.

"Why?" It was Stephen. It was a question only an Immortal would have asked. Insanity is not uncommon among them; their whole existence is an insanity, perhaps even an obscenity. I once thought so. I would have hunted both of them not so very long ago. I heard the courage in the question and I was ashamed.

"Let's just say that you are not the only one who could benefit from some new survival strategies," Adam said. It was not a bad way of putting it, I had to admit.

"You need to be in a safe place," I said. "At the clinic, you will be on Holy Ground. No one can harm you there." It was the only argument I had that I thought he would accept. 

"Like Darius?" he snapped back. 

I was unprepared for that. "We are not Hunters," I said. I doubt it sounded very firm. Stephen must have wondered what the hell was really going on beneath the words.

"Listen to me." He is angry and it is almost a snarl. But it is bravado, for he is also very afraid; that too is in his voice. "I am not going into hospital and I am not going to hide on Holy Ground. And since when did you peg me for an Immortal, Rene? I thought I was just a confused ex-Watcher research guy who saw a little too much action in the field."

"You are that, as well. I can understand that discovering yourself to be an Immortal during the Ahriman crisis, after studying them for so many years was a great shock, but you need to get beyond it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It makes sense, non? Your disappearance during the Ahriman crisis? Quite a shock to find out about your Immortality that way."

"That is not what happened." No, it is not how it happened. But at least he knew that I knew. It was out in the open. Then his eyes narrowed, his face became slack and his voice softened. "That's not what..."

"What the hell...?" Joseph was startled. I recognized what was happening - Adam was sliding into a flashback right in front of us. I fished in my jacket pocket for the syringe, took it out of its case and held it ready. I slipped the case with the second injection back into my pocket. Stephen, too, appeared to understand what was happening. It had been brought on by my mentioning Ahriman; no doubt he was back there, God help him. Adam leaped out of the chair, his eyes fixed on Joseph and calling Richie's name. I was already standing; Stephen was behind him, watching for the sword. 

"Be careful. Hold him!"

Joseph had got himself to his feet and was coming around the table, drawing Adam's glazed attention. Just as Adam's hand went to the sword, had his hand on the hilt, in fact, Stephen grabbed his arms from behind and Joseph took the sword out of harm's way. Adam let out a roar and I lunged forward, stabbing his thigh with the hypodermic and pressing the plunger. Haldol works very quickly but not instantly. We would still need to subdue him. 

"Hold on!" I said to Stephen. Adam was shrieking and struggling. I dropped the syringe on the table and helped Stephen. We are both big men, I a little bigger than Adam, but anyone experiencing a psychotic episode becomes remarkably strong.

"It's all right, Adam," Stephen said into Adam's ear. "It's all right. You're safe. Let us help you." 

But Adam broke Stephen's grip and rammed an elbow into Stephen's stomach. I grasped his arm and wrapped my other arm around his neck, trying to get a headlock on him. He threw his head back but I saw it coming and pulled my own head out of the way. By this time, Stephen had recovered his own grip on Adam's other arm. Between the two of us pulling and shoving, we got him moving toward the door, screaming something in a language I did not recognize. Then his eyes seemed to fix on Joseph and his tone became desperate, pleading. "Joe we have to go we have to go... Joe, please...Joe!"

"It's all right, Adam. I'm here. We're okay. We don't have to go anywhere." Joseph was almost in tears but he was holding up well. A good man, a good friend. He walked toward a door and opened it. The bar staff had stopped to stare, horrified. Joseph gestured toward his bartender. "It's under control," he shouted.

Adam's struggles were becoming less coordinated but still very strong. "Oh God oh God oh God... swords don't do that they can't... can't do that can't do that... No!... No!"

"When's this stuff supposed to work?" Stephen hissed at me, one arm around Adam's neck and the other grasping a shoulder and barely able to maintain his hold.

"Two or three minutes," I told him, breathing heavily. "It will snap him out of the hallucination. Then he will be exhausted and fall asleep. Watch his legs!"

Adam lashed out and I had to jump backward. A table kept me from going right down but it hurt like hell and I had a nasty bruise for several days afterward.

Stephen managed to get a tighter grip. "I'm going to be fucking exhausted as well!"

"In my office," Joseph said. 

We had a hell of a time. Adam fought us every step of the way, yelling at imaginary demons. If this did not show Joseph how serious it was, nothing would. 

"Joseph!" I shouted. "Sit on the sofa. Stephen, we must get him on the sofa and Joseph can hold him. There's a second injection I must give him."

Joseph sat down on the end of the sofa in the office. Stephen and I manoeuvred Adam to the sofa, and wrestled him onto it, his back toward Joseph. His body was growing less coordinated and a little slack, responding to the drug, but it was not over. We got his jacket off, which was quite a struggle, Joseph wrapped his arms around him and held him, with Stephen's help, while I pulled the case back out of my pocket to administer the second injection. 

"What's that for?" Stephen asked.

"It eases the side effects of the Haldol," I said. It was easier just to give the injection through the material again than struggle to expose his hip. He flinched and cried out a little as the needle went into the tense muscle. In that heightened state, the sensation of pain is intense. "He will sleep," I said. 

Adam was relaxing visibly but still very agitated and still shouting, his breath coming in pants. "Sean! Put the sword down put it down put it down... Joe!... Oh, Joe... we have to get out of here..."

Joseph hung on bravely. "Easy, man. Take it easy. That's it. It's all right. You're right here. Come on. Just breathe, Adam. Take a deep breath for me. That's it..."

"Joe..." Adam was back with us. Joseph still held him, weeping now. I put the syringe back into the case. I would need to retrieve the other one. 

I bent down by Adam's head and stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him. "I'm sorry, old friend," I said. "I had to give you something to bring you back down. You were not responding to anything else."

"What?" he tried to sit up again, but Joseph would not allow it. He was just realizing where he was, realizing that he had probably fought, probably put Joseph in danger. 

"I didn't... Where's my jacket?" Even now he was looking for his sword.

"Stephen is keeping your sword safe in the bar. You tried to take it out. It caused some alarm."

"Safe..." The Haldol was bringing him down. Soon he would fall asleep and we should have to decide what to do. "I said Ôno drugs'."

"And I said fine, so long as you did not become a danger to yourself or others. We have passed that point. You need to be in the hospital."

"No. No, I won't go." He looked terribly afraid. My heart went out. "Joe, please. Don't let him put me in hospital." 

Joseph said nothing. His love for Adam was tearing him apart. It was up to him. I stared at him, trying to warn him, begging him to agree to what I wanted to do. Surely he understood now.

"Joseph..."

Joseph sighed. "Okay, Adam. We'll work something out."

"No hospital."

"No hospital."

I cursed in French. As Adam slipped into sleep, Joseph wept openly. 

***

And now I was walking to Le Blues, smoking yet another cigarette and out of my mind with worry. I was going to find out just how far Joseph went to avoid that hospitalization. _Mon Dieu_! It was all going so very wrong.

****

Chapter 7

Sunday, November 24, 7:00 pm

I finish my cigarette just as I arrive at Le Blues. It is closed for business but when I try the door, it opens and I go inside. The door to Joseph's office on the far side of the room is open. As I go toward it, Stephen appears in the doorway. Is Adam here, then? 

"Ah, Rene. Wondered when you'd get here." His manner is almost surly. Has Mlle Thomas perhaps been lecturing him? He is also drunk. "Thought you'd got lost."

"I took the Metro," I say as I reach the door.

He gestures toward the office. Mlle Thomas is at her father's desk looking through some papers. When she sees me, she stands to greet me. I do not think she is pleased to see me.

"Dr. Galbon," she says, a little stiffly, it seems. The lady has secrets. But she is quite sober.

We shake hands. "Miss Thomas."

Behind me, Stephen clears his throat. "I... um... I'm getting a taxi. Going home."

I turn to face him. "Where is Adam?"

He spreads his hands in a gesture to placate me. In his condition, I am surprised that he is still able to stand. "No. Fucking. Idea," he says. 

His words are slurred; he has been drinking for hours. He was here when I called, _non_? He has not been with Adam then; they have been lying to me. He glances over my shoulder and straightens. I turn my head to see Mlle Thomas signalling Stephen to be quiet. She looks at me sternly. I can see I will have difficulty here.

"I'll just get my coat," Stephen says, pushing past me into the office. "Adam is fine." He takes his coat off the sofa and almost stumbles. "Wherever the hell he is." 

"I demand to know what is going on," I say. The anger in my voice should be obvious even to Stephen.

He observes me with drunken nonchalance. "I leave that to the lovely and generous Miss Thomas," he says. He is barely able to form the syllables. "For I..." - he pulls on his coat - "...am going home to bed."

I block his path to the door. "Where is he?"

"Leave the poor sod alone, Rene." He waves one hand at me as if swatting a fly. "We're all barking mad, you know. He'll get over it. We all do. You wake up one morning," - he wiggles the fingers of both hands in the air and leers at me - "and all the nightmares have flown away." And he laughs. 

Mlle Thomas takes Stephen's arm and guides him past me. "I've called you a taxi, Stephen." Then she looks at me; I believe she is embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Doctor. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a moment." And she steers Stephen through the door.

I take off my jacket, place my knapsack on the sofa and sit in the chair at the end of the desk. I take my cigarettes out before I remember that Mlle Thomas does not smoke. When she returns, it is with a tray, a bottle of her father's best Scotch, two glasses and an ashtray. She places them on the desk between us and pours the Scotch without a word. 

"Thank you," I say.

She sits down. "If you're going to smoke, I'll take one."

I raise my eyebrows and offer her one. She takes it and I light it for her. She is troubled. Her hand is steady, but her nervousness is obvious. I doubt I am its sole cause. 

"I did not realize you smoked, Miss Thomas."

She draws a lungful of smoke easily. "Not since Sixth Form. But I believe I need one."

I smile and take a drag on my own. "And you went through the Academy without starting again? That shows remarkable restraint."

She leans back in the chair. "I am not particularly fond of restraint, but I was well brought-up. Another kind of restraint." She sighs and blows out the smoke. "I am not the same person."

I take a sip of the Scotch, cross my legs and try to relax into the chair. "You are a human being. Change is a good thing, _non_?"

A little smile plays around her mouth and she picks a bit of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "I suppose it is. And what about you, Doctor? Are you a changed man for being a Watcher?"

I am tempted not to reply but the irony is amusing. "_Mais bien sur_ - but of course. Why did you become a Watcher?" I take a drag on the cigarette while she responds. If you leave someone room to think, it eases their fears. I do not need her to be afraid of me.

"My mother was a Watcher." Her voice is flat, a little hard. I do not think there is much love there. We are all orphans in our own way, non?

"I see. I will not lie to you, Miss Thomas. I have seen your file."

She looks up at me; her eyes are wide. I see I have startled her. 

"What on earth for?"

I shrug. "Your name came up in one of my sessions with Adam. I was curious."

"Ben mentioned me in a session? Because he saved my life?" Something in her eyes tells me that this pleases her. A little... eagerness, perhaps?

I ignore the question and take another sip of the Scotch. "Do you have feelings for him?"

I see I have startled her again. _Tant pis._

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, Miss Thomas, we are two people concerned for the same man, for his welfare, for his continued survival, I in my way, as his doctor but also as his friend, and you, I think... There is something there, _non_?"

Her face flushes a little and she takes a drink of the Scotch. "It's really none of your business. And I resent being psychoanalyzed."

"This has nothing to do with psychoanalysis. Nothing at all. We must be on the same ground, you and I. On this we must trust each other. Do you understand?"

"That we both have his best interests at heart? Oh, yes, I understand very well. And whatever else I may think of you, Doctor, I do believe this of you."

"_Bon_. Where is he?" 

She sighs heavily; she is resigned. "He's in Scotland."

Now it is my turn to be startled. "_Pardon_?"

She takes some of the Scotch before answering. "He went with my father. He had some business, something to do with MacLeod, I think. My father, I mean. Not Ben. My father asked him to come, thought it would be good for him to get away for a day or two."

"Without telling me?"

She shrugs, takes a drag on the cigarette and stubs it out. "You would never have approved."

I am stunned. "And rather than risk my disapproval, they did not ask for it? This is absurd."

"It might interest you to know that they are both there with Gabrieli's approval."

Merde! This is a slap in the face. Gabrieli is telling me that he is still my superior, whether I like it or not. I see that he does not tolerate insubordination well, and my refusal to tell him what he wanted to know has come to this. It is an insult. I finish my own cigarette and stub it out. I cannot say anything. I drink some of the Scotch and rub my head with my hand. 

"You're very quiet," she says and lifts the glass to her lips. "I suppose it goes with the job." She drinks sparingly, her eyes cast down. "I can tell it makes you angry and I can't blame you, really. It was probably very foolish. I was a bit concerned myself."

In fact, I am relieved. My imagination, it would seem, has been running wild, which is hardly surprising. "I was afraid for Adam," I say, meaning it. "I was worried the last time I saw him and I suspected that he had run away again. But I am disturbed by this news none the less. When were they due back, may I ask?"

"They were supposed to have checked in with me by now."

"What?"

She drinks a little Scotch and stares into the glass. "I have been sitting here for the past hour wondering if MacLeod found them first. I don't much like MacLeod; I don't think he was good for my father and I don't believe he's good for Ben. And I think he might harm Ben if he got the chance. I honestly think he sees himself as the One. And one day he will kill Ben if he gets the chance, take his head. He'll call it justice or keeping the world safe from one more raving lunatic, of course. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

I close my eyes for a few moments. When I open them again, she is looking straight at me. 

"You do know what I'm talking about, don't you, Doctor." It is a statement. "My father told me that you thought Ben became Immortal during the Ahriman affair with MacLeod, but that was a lie, wasn't it?" I smile and drink some of the Scotch. "I can see that it was. You know."

Ah. Now it is on the table. There is little point in pretending; what I have to tell her is easier if we each know where the other stands. "That he is Methos? Yes. I have known it for years."

"And that's why you're so anxious to help him? Always so ready to protect him?"

"That. And other things... Many other things." I hear the bitterness in my own voice. I am quite sure it did not escape her notice. 

"What's that dark look on your face, Doctor? Are you hiding something? It seems everyone else is hiding something and I suspect you're good at it. You're even trained to hide things." Her fingers, tight on the glass, betray her nervousness. "Why didn't Gabrieli tell you that your patient had flown the coop? Is that what's bothering you?"

"M. Gabrieli and I do not see eye to eye. He wanted me to tell him about my sessions with Adam. I told him to go to hell." I laugh to myself and drain my glass. "Politely, of course."

"Of course. I can imagine. I did wonder why Gabrieli let them go. Now I understand. A little anyway."

"Gabrieli is not a fool. He gives them permission, gains their trust a little... and disciplines me. He kills two birds with one stone." Discipline. Something you are a little short of yourself these days, Rene. 

"Would you like some more Scotch?" I push the glass toward her and she refills both. "And are you properly chastised?" She leans back in the chair, observing me. She will be a very good field agent one of these days. She is already better than most but she must learn to control the nervousness before it controls her. She must not expect it to go away; it never does. And it can be her friend, keep her safe. Or her enemy.

"He would not think so." I take my glass and hold it, letting it warm in my hand. I would have preferred cognac, but the Scotch is welcome, something to calm my own nerves. "And now you are worried that MacLeod has taken the head of Methos."

"The thought must have occurred to you, too."

"It has, I am sorry to say. But if the thing is done, then it is done."

A shadow passes over her face and for a brief moment, I think she will cry, but it passes and she is again in control. Still nervous, for all her cool words, but in control. My own heart is heavy. 

"You needn't wait with me, Doctor," she says. "I'll call you when I hear something. No need for both of us to lose sleep."

I put the glass down, stretch out my legs and fold my hands over my belly. It is a posture which relaxes me, the one I use when I am with my patients. "Why did you not tell Stephen where Adam and your father have gone?"

She sighs. "I didn't want him haring off after them and only succeeding in making matters worse. You must know he and MacLeod hate the sight of each other."

I smile. "Adam told me. He found it rather amusing to play them against each other." I take out my cigarettes again. "Would you care for one?"

She shakes her head. "Thank-you, no. I should eat something, I suppose. Don't let me stop you."

I light one and smoke for a while before saying anything. She is quiet. Perhaps she is thinking of Adam; I do believe the lady is in love. If Adam were well, this would be very good; as it is, it could be disaster for them both. Joseph has told me how Adam does not hold himself back in such things and the emotional load would be more than he could handle. Although I suspect there is some feeling on his side already. He was telling me about Alexa at the time and used the name 'Amy' without noticing. But I noticed. I did not call him on it at the time; it would have caused him some distress, I think. And when he is well enough, when he is ready, I will wish them well.

And I have made a decision. "Miss Thomas, I need your help," I say.

"With Ben?"

"Indirectly."

"Why my help?"

"It is an extremely delicate matter. I cannot go to your father and Adam must not know. Perhaps one day, but not now."

"You're being very circumspect, Doctor. Does it have to do with the Watchers?"

I nod. "Oh, yes. I'm afraid it does. And it is dangerous. If you help me, you will almost certainly be risking your life."

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily. "Oh, God." When she opens them again, her face is drawn. "Please, no, Doctor. Don't ask me. Surely there is someone else. What about Stephen? He's eager and he won't be risking his neck."

"Stephen is not a Watcher."

"No, and I'm beginning to wish I weren't. You must know what I've already been through, how close I came to being murdered, for God's sake! You've seen my file."

"Indeed I have. Miss Thomas... what do you know about me? I know that you have researched my file and I am equally sure that it was at your father's request. What did you find?"

"That you are what you say you are. But surely you know that, Doctor. I doubt you resisted the temptation to snoop in your own file while you were into everyone else's." She is annoyed. _Tant pis, Mademoiselle_. Annoyance will be the least of what you will feel when I am done.

"And what else?"

"That was bloody it! And well you know it. Your field experience in the late seventies - which sounds as traumatic as my own, by the way, only a lot more of it - your entry into medical school, your residency at Sean's hospital, work record, all the usual things. But _you_ weren't there. If I had only that file to go on, I would have no idea who you were. Being in the Watchers is hellish dangerous, as I am finding out. But your record is all smooth sailing. And there's nothing at all from 1987 to 1994. It says you took over several of Sean Burns' patients after he was murdered by Duncan MacLeod, after which your record is just as innocuous as the rest of it."

I smile. "And you do not believe it."

"No. And neither does my father. I have made inquiries."

"I must ask you to curtail those inquiries." She stares at me. "Do not underestimate me, Miss Thomas. I am deadly serious."

"Are you threatening me, Doctor?"

I shake my head. "No. But you would be endangering everyone. And that includes Adam. Let me show you something."

I reach for my knapsack and open it. I sort through the manila envelopes and find what I am looking for. I draw it out and hand it to her.

She looks up at me; she is afraid. I nod at her. She opens the envelope as if it will bite her. She slides the photograph out and gasps. "Oh, my God! Where did you get this?"

I shrug. "I stole it. From Headquarters this afternoon. Do you recognize the other man in the photograph? You should."

She says nothing for a few moments but she is horrified. It is on her face. I wait until she chooses to speak. "I thought... Forgive me, Doctor. I am a little confused. I thought that my uncle was killed by Duncan MacLeod. Stabbed." She is clearly shaken; her voice is tremulous.

I nod to reassure her. "I do not give you this to imply that your father was the murderer. Horton was, in fact, murdered by Duncan MacLeod, and perhaps that is fitting. I am quite sure they know this at Headquarters. But your father did shoot him. Horton fell into the Seine and your father believed him to be dead. Your father carries that guilt to this day but he should not. Horton was a bad man who caused many deaths." And who knows this better than I?

She studies my face but I do not change my expression. She must decide for herself; it is only fair. "May I ask how you know this?"

Am I ready to tell her? Tell her what? That it was I Horton came to that day and that is how I know? I decide that I am not. Not just yet. "I am a psychiatrist, _non_? People tell me many things. Troubled people with a great deal on their minds." I take a swallow of the whiskey and finish the cigarette. 

She looks down at the photograph. Her face is very expressive of sadness, it seems. Does it also show happiness? It shows love; this I can see. She loves her father; it is obvious, whatever she tells herself. "Why did you give me this?" 

"It was not to hurt you, Miss Thomas. I took it from the office of a man who has many things like this, on many people. Letters, photographs..." I shrug. This is not the time to be a coward, Rene. "Tapes."

"He's blackmailing people?"

I wave my hand in the air. What do I really know? Nothing. I will not lie to her. "I cannot say. I thought so at first but now I suspect that he has these things to protect himself."

"Is he a Watcher?"

I shrug and shake my head. "I do not wish to put you in danger unnecessarily, Miss Thomas. If you decide to help me, I will tell you his name."

"If it is to protect my father, of course I'll help."

I shake my head again. It would be very unfair of me to accept her help before I have told her why I need it. I do not want this, too, on my conscience. "Do not decide yet; you do not yet know what it is I want from you - or why I want it." 

"If he's a Watcher, it's very simple, Doctor. You have to go to Gabrieli with what you know. If this man is blackmailing people, it's a criminal matter and the police will be involved unless it's stopped before it gets to that. Gabrieli has to know."

I rest my elbows on the arms of the chair and place my chin on my hands. It is already too late to turn back. 

"I see," she says. "He has something damning on you. And you can't go to Gabrieli because of it."

I close my eyes and incline my head toward her. Yes. When I look at her again, she is merely watching me. Is it sympathy? What would I feel in her place? I have just given her a photograph that shows her father to be capable of cold-blooded murder; I doubt she thinks my motives are pure as the driven snow. 

"You don't have to tell me what it is," she says. "I suspect it's best if I don't know. Who else is in thrall to that man? What else do you have in that little bag of yours?"

I am hesitant to tell her much more. What is the purpose of showing her something that would mean nothing to her? Most of the photographs would be meaningless to her, of no personal interest save to prove that Croft left no stone unturned. He does not strike me as a blackmailer; he is far too timid personally. No, his own safety has been his concern since the beginning. I am quite sure that I am right in this. And his prurient interests are no concern of mine. I will not show her the tape of Adam and Horton; until she understands much more, it would only serve to disturb her further. 

"Tell me something, Doctor. You said that this man has these things to protect himself. Does he believe my father would harm him?'

I shrug and sit back. "I have no idea what he believes. He knows your father is capable of murder; perhaps that is enough to frighten him. Certainly he has never gone to the Council with it."

I see the fear on her face. Her thoughts are leading her into dangerous places, perhaps. "Why would he take such a photograph? How did he know to be there?" She is agitated. The nervousness has betrayed her; this latest little shock is breaking her control. 

And that is a most interesting question. How indeed? How is it that he was always in the right place?... _Mon Dieu._ I understand. At long last, I understand. Croft was Horton's eyes and ears. What he knew, Horton knew. That is how Horton knew Sean had committed me, how he knew that I had been sending money to Rodrig's widow and how he always knew where to find me.

Horton knew MacLeod would be at the barge. Croft went with him. Croft saw him fall into the water and rescued him; Croft brought him to me. Horton knew about Mathilde - then so does Croft.

And Croft is a dead man.

"Doctor? Answer me, Doctor!" She is almost shouting. I have frightened her. "How the hell did he know to be where my father would be? And how do _you_ know?" 

She is on the edge of tears. It is time. "He was with Horton that night."

"And how do you _know_ this? Did 'a patient' tell you this, too? How do you know _any_ of it? You have lied before. Please don't lie to me now!"

It is time.

"Because I was one of them, Miss Thomas." 

****

Continued in Part 2.

Alec@hfx.eastlink.ca


	2. Part 2

Chapter 8

_Agnus dei_

_Qui tollis peccata mundi_

_Dona mihi requiem_

She sits before me in silence. I cannot blame her. My own mind is heavy with sorrow. It is a long time since I said such terrible things to anyone; to hear myself admit to what I am - to what I was - is a dagger to my own heart.

"I am very sorry, Miss Thomas. But you must know. I do not ask your forgiveness."

She is staring at some point in the air beyond my shoulder; she does not wish to look me in the face, I think. I pour more whiskey for us both; she does not object. I offer her a cigarette; she takes it and I light it for her. Then I take one for myself. We sit in silence for several minutes, smoking, drinking the whiskey, and I am glad of my training. 

I wait for her to speak but she does not. I must break the silence myself. "Your search of my file showed you very little because I meant it to show very little."

She stubs out the cigarette and glares at me. "And do you still hunt, Doctor? Do you still kill for nothing or are you reformed and only kill for a reason?" She rests her elbow on the desk and puts her forehead in her hand to hide her face from me. Or so that she will not have to look at mine, I suspect.

"It was a long time ago, Miss Thomas. And not long enough. And now there is a man who demands that I do as he wishes."

She closes her eyes for a few moments as if to think, then she straightens herself in her chair. Her expression is one of sadness and deep concern, though I suspect it is not for myself. "Or he will destroy you." It is said quietly.

I finish the cigarette and stub it out. What do I say? Perhaps she will think it no more than I deserve. The past is done and there is nothing I can say that will change that. Do I underestimate her, perhaps? Her file told me of her own encounters with vicious Immortals; her own reports of the affair with Morgan Walker were there, together with corroborating reports from supervisory personnel and a copy of the reprimand entered against Joseph for sending her into the field too early. It was most enlightening. It told of a frightened woman who showed courage but was nevertheless very lucky to have survived. And that at the intervention of one Benjamin Adams - Methos himself. It seems we both owe him our lives. And our loyalties.

"He will most certainly destroy me. And those I love." Perhaps she understands what drives some Watchers to take matters into their own hands, although it does not excuse what I did.

She looks into her glass most thoughtfully; she is pulling herself together. Good girl; Joseph is right to be proud of his child. "Is this man an Immortal?" There is a touch of bitterness to her voice. I am right; she knows what they can be.

"Are you certain that you wish me to answer that question?"

"You mean, am I willing to help you?" She sighs and drinks a little whiskey. She has made her decision. "Yes, Doctor. I am." She looks up at me. The determination in her jaw is impressive and I am not at all surprised that Adam... admires her, non? "Are you surprised?"

I smile. "No, Miss Thomas, I am not. But once I tell you, there will be no going back. You will put yourself in danger; be certain of this. And I put my life in your hands by telling you these things."

"I know, and I don't thank you for putting me in that position. But I apologize for my outburst. And if I am to be a Watcher, I had better get used to danger. God knows, there's been enough of it so far. Do you ever get used to it?"

I shake my head. "No. I have treated Watchers who became 'used to it' but it was almost an addiction. It is a bad thing. It is possible to lose one's perspective - even to lose one's humanity, you see. And that must never be. Fear is a warning, very natural; fear keeps you alert, keeps you alive. If you lose your fear of danger, then it will be time to be done with it before it kills you. Do you understand?"

She smiles, but her face is sad. "I'm not doing this for you, Doctor; I don't know you well enough to risk my life for you. This is for Ben."

I shrug. "And it is for him that I ask it. Not for myself. If it comes to light - what I was..." 

"...it would destroy him. Is that what you meant by 'those I love'?"

I drain my glass before replying. Perhaps I have given the wrong impression. "There are others I love, Miss Thomas, but I care for Adam, what becomes of him. Not just because he is Methos but because he is a good friend. He saved my life. In more ways than one. It is a debt I repay gladly."

She looks at me; her words forgive me but her eyes say something else. "And it eases your conscience? Are you doing this out of some driving need for redemption?" 

I do not answer. I reach for the Scotch and pour myself another shot. I must keep a clear head, but also, my nerves are still very bad. The whiskey eases them - to a point. I offer to pour her some more but she shakes her head. It is wise of her.

She rests her head on her hand again. The emotional struggle is very plain; she is appalled, and yet she understands. It is her own acceptance that disturbs her, not what I did. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she says. "That was un-called for."

I drink a little; it is beginning to calm me and I shall need to be calm. "It is a shock, _non_? I do not say these things easily, Miss Thomas. I have told no-one besides Sean, Darius and my Confessor; two are dead, of course, and my priest is also an enclosed monk who will never speak of it to anyone. Along with the friendship of Adam Pierson, they kept me from killing myself. And yes, it eases my conscience."

She sits up again and sighs deeply. I am moved by the strain in her pretty face. "And you would not have told me unless Ben were involved. How is he involved? Is he in danger?" Ah, the lady is most certainly in love. I must tread carefully.

I shrug. "Adam is always in danger. I do not need to tell you this. It is how he lives. For the moment, the man involved does not know that he is Methos. If that should change... yes, most certainly."

"Then this man is a Hunter."

I nod. "His name is Eddie Brill. Perhaps you know who he is."

"Hasn't he disappeared? I heard a rumour... something about an amnesty for informants. I did wonder... Oh, my God! Did he inform on you?"

I shake my head. It was the obvious assumption and I still must fear that others will take it into their heads to do so. But not Eddie. "No. He needs me."

"And he has something on you himself."

"So he says. I do not believe it."

"And this is the man who took the photographs?"

"No. Eddie... Eddie tried to kill me. Twice. Eddie enjoyed what he did, believed himself to be doing a service to humanity. It is what they all believed."

"Killing Morgan Walker _was_ a service to humanity. I can see the appeal."

"_Precisement_. And they forgive no-one. Darius died because they would not believe that a man can change, even an Immortal who has much time to change, to learn to be a better human being... It began because non-interference is absurd. For the quiet ones, perhaps it does not matter so much, but for those who are vicious, those who kill without mercy, without compassion for mortal humanity, no, it is impossible. 'Watch, record but never interfere'... It is a nice thought, but how does a Watcher feel when his charge commits crimes which would put him behind bars for a lifetime if he were mortal and yet he goes free to do it again? It is intolerable. However, to take the law into one's own hands is equally intolerable; those who do this become no better than those they kill. I know." 

"But you can't bring the law into it where an Immortal is involved. It would blow everything wide open."

"I do not pretend to have the answers; I am not Solomon. But neither am I a barbarian. The Watchers put their heads into the sand, I think. They do not see because they do not wish to see. Vigilantism always begins as an attempt to protect the innocent where the law has failed. But this is always misguided. It protects no-one and, eventually, there are no longer any lines. What began as a way of eliminating the worst of them ended as a Crusade against them all, an unholy cause."

She is quiet. Does she think of Methos, the Horseman? She sees Benjamin Adams, healer, rescuer of maidens in distress... Friend and potential lover. She knows they are one and the same. And yet she knows, too, that still he would be condemned, not for what he is but for what he was. As will I be condemned for past sins. We change, if we survive. Should this not wipe away the stain? The guilt lives within ourselves, within our hearts and minds. My soul answers to God but my body answers to man. In the eyes of the law and in the hearts of men, I will always be guilty, as will he. As was Darius. And so we keep our secrets and there is no kindness for us anywhere.

For a moment, I think she is going to ask me for another cigarette, but she resists the temptation. "Then those who merely enjoyed killing took over. I don't get the impression that you ever got that far, Doctor."

I shake my head. No, I never got that far, perhaps by the grace of God. Yet far enough. "Possibly that is why Sean never turned me over to the Council himself. I cannot say."

"He must have seen some good in you; I hear he was a very perceptive man. You mentioned Darius. Tell me, were you involved in that?"

"No, no. Of this, I assure you, I am guiltless."

"You said he was your Confessor?"

"And I believe that he was killed because he knew about the Watchers - and the Hunters. He knew because I told him. Perhaps they would have left him alone otherwise and he would still be alive."

"And you have this on your conscience as well? Why didn't you warn him?"

"Oh, I tried, Mademoiselle. I tried. And, obviously, I failed..." 

And I almost died with him. 

****

"Telephone for you, Rene. Sorry to bother you."

I looked up from my notes in surprise. Sean did not make a habit of disturbing me in my consulting room. There was a good reason I had no telephone in there. "_Merci._ Who is it, please?"

"Adam Pierson. He sounds a little ruffled. I think you should take it." The worry on his face was plain and it occurred to me that Adam was in difficulty. I was flattered that he would ask for me at such a time. 

"Of course."

I hurried to the telephone in Sean's office. I was surprised that Adam would have Sean's private number but then, Adam was always surprising me with his genius for knowing the impossible. When I picked up the receiver, Sean left me to myself and closed the door. No doubt he also thought that Adam was asking for counselling. 

"Adam? You are all right?"

His voice was quite cheerful. "Yeah, I'm fine, Rene. I thought we could have a beer."

"You call me at work to suggest that I take the afternoon off for a beer with you? I am flattered but I am very busy."

"Yeah, sorry about that. But I think you should come. I already told Sean. He's giving you the afternoon off." 

What was he not telling me? Surely he did not think that Sean's line was tapped. Perhaps he was not free to speak. "Very well. It will take me a little while to drive into Paris. Where do you want to meet?"

"That little restaurant you like on the rue de l'Echelle, just over from the Louvre."

"Adam, that is all the way downtown!" I sigh into the telephone; there is very little point in protesting. "_Eh bien._ I will be there."

And Sean had indeed given me the afternoon off. He took over my patients himself. I have always wondered what Adam told him. I telephoned Nikki and told her that I had to go to Paris and would be home late, if at all. Perhaps I would need to stay overnight. Then I drove to the outskirts of Paris, left my car in a garage and took the Metro to Palais Royale. It took less than three minutes to reach the little restaurant. He was waiting for me at a sidewalk table, drinking coffee, which surprised me. I had to admit that I was grateful to get away for an afternoon but I had spent the entire trip here worrying about what could have gone wrong and here he was, looking fit and happy as if he had not a care in the world. Of course, he often looked that way; it was usually a mask.

I took the seat beside him. "Are you all right?"

He shrugged. "I told you. I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"Me?"

The waiter was at my elbow before I could say more. "_Bonjour. Qu'est-ce que je vous sers, Monsieur?_"

_"Ah... un cafe noir avec du lait et un cognac, s'il vous plait."_

When the waiter left, Adam smirked. "You do like milk in your coffee, don't you? You're in a rut, Rene."

"It is a comfortable one."

"How is Mathilde?"

"She is very well. Growing quickly, as babies will, and not keeping me up in the middle of the night any more, I am pleased to say. But you did not bring me to downtown Paris in the middle of the day to ask about my daughter."

"No, I didn't. You're in trouble."

A cold shudder ran down my spine. The waiter arrived with my coffee and cognac, which relieved me of having to reply. I thanked him, my voice barely above a whisper. Adam looked at me, not unkindly. _Bon_. If he had found out, he would not have bothered with this little get-together, yet I thought he would not have reported me, either. Ah, I cannot know what he would have done. And I still believed him to be mortal, after all. 

He smiled; he sensed my discomfort. "Can you think of a reason why James Horton would be checking up on you?"

"_Oh, mon Dieu! _I will have nothing to do with that son of a bitch!"

"Yeah, I did wonder. Actually, I'm a little suspicious. He and I... well, let's just say we have had our differences of opinion about you." He chuckled to himself. It would be ten years before I understood the meaning of what he had just told me. "And put a smile on. They're watching us. We're just here for a coffee, two old friends getting together, all right?"

My head was spinning. Watching us? How long had this been going on? Why now? Why had Horton spoken to Adam about me? "When did this happen?"

"Couple of days ago. I did a little digging on my own but I kept hitting a brick wall. Something's up and you just might be in the middle of it."

"But I have had nothing to do with the man for years. _C'est absurde!_"

"That's rather what I thought. But he did try to kill you after all. And you never told me what it was you had on him. Personally, I think he's a Hunter. And if you have proof, your days just might be numbered, my friend."

I was speechless. It had been - what? - five years since Rodrig, four since Horton had shown me the tape and nothing had come of it. All had been quiet; I had kept what I knew to myself and I was still alive. I had been complacent, wrapped up in the birth of my child, in being a father for the first time. And now? 

"Rene? You all right?" I nod but I can say nothing. "I think you should drink that coffee and we can go somewhere less conspicuous, have something to eat, be old friends out of sight. You need to talk to me about what you know because something is going down." 

"Very well."

I poured the brandy into the coffee and drank it. Adam paid the bill while I went down the back stairs to the bathroom. I relieved myself, washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. _Merde!_ What was happening? Could they not leave me alone? I had said nothing; I did not dare, and now others depended on me. I no longer wished my own destruction. I was no longer a danger to them. Perhaps Adam was right and something was about to happen - something which concerned me? I preferred not to contemplate what it might be. 

I jumped when I heard the door open behind me but it was Adam. He relieved himself and washed his hands while I waited, hardly able to think. I had gone soft; I had been away from that existence a long time and was no longer alert. Perhaps it would be my undoing.

"There's a back way out of here." he said. "I slipped the waiter twenty francs to let us into the alley, no questions. Fatherhood seems to have ruined your nerves."

"I will be all right. It is a shock, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get you out of here."

Upstairs, the waiter showed us to the back door and into the alley. 

"I know a little place on the Rive Gauche," he said when we were outside. "Ten minutes down some back alleys. It's owned by a friend of mine. We can talk there."

I lit a cigarette as we walked. Adam's face was grim, his cheerful smile gone with the spring wind. We kept away from le Quai des Tuileries, going east, parallel to the Seine. I had not walked there in some while, although I used to stroll there on the esplanade with Madeleine, Mathilde's mother, in happier times. And we were very close to Darius' church. I had not seen him since Mathilde's christening, over a month before. 

We did not speak. He seemed to be using the spire of Notre Dame as a landmark as we dodged down one alley, then another. At another time, I would have thought it paranoid behaviour, but now...? Now it was perhaps my own life at stake. And his also? I thought about what he had said about believing Horton to be a Hunter. When he said it, it was almost with a snarl. At the time, of course, I thought it only the utter disgust of the academic for the vulgar and the barbaric, the reaction of someone who spent his solitary days searching for truth. He had said that he and Horton had had a 'difference of opinion' concerning myself. Had he put himself in danger from the Hunters on my account? If true, it had been very rash. And I did not think of Adam Pierson as a man prone to rashness. Whatever his reasons, it was quite obvious to me that I should say nothing of my own involvement. Now, of course, I know it would have been a disaster for both of us.

Very soon, we emerged from a back alley into a street I knew. It was only one street over from Darius' church, on the west side of the little park, very narrow, very old. As we went into the open, we were both very cautious, looking about for signs of anyone who might be watching for us. I was alert again, as if the habit had only been waiting for me to notice it and put it on again. There appeared to be no-one. Close by, Adam led me into a little restaurant. Inside, he nodded at the man behind the bar, who nodded back, and took me to a door near the kitchen. When we went through it, we were greeted in a most friendly fashion by a small, older man with kind eyes that observed me most thoroughly. It occurs to me now to wonder if this man, whose name I never knew, was an Immortal. In any case, I never saw him again after that day. Now that I begin to think of these things, I wonder how many more besides Darius died that night. Certainly, Adam and I were supposed to be among them.

Adam spoke quietly and briefly to the man in some language I did not understand. The man smiled at me most graciously and showed us up some stairs to the floor above, where, presumably, he lived. We were ushered into a very comfortable parlour, small but exquisitely furnished in fine antiques. A little dog was asleep on a cushion on a red velvet sofa. 

"_Veuillez vous asseoir, Monsieur,_" the man said to me. "_Mon foyer est le votre. Je rentrerai dans quelques instants_." [Be seated, please, Sir. My home is yours. I will return in a moment.] And he was gone.

I took off my coat and sat down in a plush Victorian armchair. There was an ashtray to one side with some cigarette butts in it. No doubt the gentleman would not mind if I indulged my habit. While I lit one gratefully, Adam disappeared into another room, possibly a little kitchen, and returned with two mugs of dark beer. He handed one to me and sat in a second armchair opposite me. His face was very dark. 

"We can talk safely here. There's some food coming. I hope you weren't planning on being back in Reims tonight."

"No. I told Nikki I might have to stay in Paris. Adam, what is going on?"

He drank deeply of the beer and sighed heavily, wearily. "I don't know. But something is."

I drank some of my beer. It was strong and very good; in other circumstances, I would have enjoyed it. "What did Horton say when he came to see you?"

"Some nonsense about incomplete reports when he was your supervisor. Wanted to know if you'd ever talked to me about your Watcher days, before med school."

"But he was not my supervisor then. I don't understand."

He shrugged and drank some more of the beer. "I know. I did some checking."

"On me? But why?"

He laughed. "Don't get your knickers in a knot, Rene. I looked you up when I first met you. You were a real hell-raiser back in the seventies, three personal reprimands from Lebeau himself while still at the Academy. And I can tell a faked report when I read one. You were a very naughty boy."

It was my turn to laugh. "M. Lebeau was very kind. He told me that he understood how it was for fatherless boys, but if I did not mend my ways, he could not save me from myself. I was only twenty years old and something of a thorn in his side." And perhaps Lebeau had seen others like me, wild, insubordinate, angry. I no longer remember what he said but I had the impression, standing there in front of his desk, sweating while he recited my numerous infractions, that perhaps he was speaking to his younger self. It was not so much in his words as in his eyes; the sadness there cut me to the bone. "He told me that I was like a stone, hard and unworkable, but that if he polished me enough, I might show some brilliance. He said he had considered confining me at the Academy but told me that the black mark on my record would be punishment enough. Unless I did it again, of course. And then he would lock me up until I saw the error of my ways. I could hardly keep a straight face. And eventually, he recommended me for medical school." I shrugged. "One cannot know what is in the minds of old men."

Adam gave me a strange look, then drank more of his beer. The door opened and the same gentleman came in, holding a large tray. He said nothing but placed it on his dining room table. The plates and cutlery were already laid out. Then he bowed without saying anything and left us to ourselves.

The food was wonderfully prepared - _entrecotes, vol-au-vents aux crevettes_, really quite wonderful - and although it was still early, we ate hungrily. It was just as well, as it turned out. My next meal was much farther away than I could ever have guessed.

Afterward, there was some superb coffee and Remy Martin. I could not help wondering who our gracious but absent host was. Adam did not seem inclined to tell me, however, and I did not ask.

Adam contemplated his cognac while I smoked and waited for him to lead the conversation. It was he who wished to speak to me, _apres tout_. For my part, I worried about what I could say to him that would not arouse his suspicion. 

"Why do you think he came to see me, Rene?" he asked. His eyes were narrowed and the tone sent a chill down my spine. 

"Obviously, it was not to correct old reports," I said. "Perhaps you were meant to do precisely what you have done - warn me. Perhaps it is to flush us both out." And why had I said that? "Perhaps you should have left it alone."

He drank some of the cognac, his face now thoughtful. "Yeah, that's what's worrying me. I very nearly did leave it alone but I remembered something I'd read somewhere about military strategy, about flushing your enemies into the open before a battle. If you're the enemy, you can stay quiet and pretend nothing's happening, right up until they take your position while you're busy pretending, or you can show your head and get it shot off." 

I watched him swirl the brandy in the glass, his lips pursed, eyes fixed on the liquid as if it were a crystal ball that was showing him the battle field, the generals discussing strategy, the enemy in their strongholds. Now I know that he was probably remembering. "And the only thing that is certain is that there will be a battle, _non_?"

He smiled. "Always, my friend. Always. And I have to ask myself why you and me?"

"You said that you believe Horton to be a Hunter." I hesitated and he looked at me. I need not tell him of my own involvement, but... "I can tell you that he is indeed a Hunter. He is the power behind them, the one who gives them their assignments. This I know. And for knowing this, yes, he has wished me dead for a long time." My grip tightened on my brandy glass, my palm sweating a little, but I kept my gaze steady. 

He did not respond immediately. Perhaps he had been testing me. Then he nodded a little and drank some more of the brandy. "I won't ask you how you know," he said. "But I will ask who else you've told."

And it struck me. "_Oh, mon Dieu!_ I have told Sean and Darius - and they are both Immortals. What have I done?"

****

Chapter 9

"And we are about to get our heads shot off," he said calmly. "I wish you'd told me before."

"It would have put you in danger, Adam. I could not have done that. I am sorry. I do not see how it involves you even now. You have nothing to do with Horton or the Hunters; why would he see you as a danger?"

He snorted; his face was cold steel. "Like you, I know too much. Let's just leave it at that, Rene. Maybe one day I'll tell you. For now..." He shrugged and drained the brandy. He held the glass in his hand for a moment as if his mind were somewhere else. Then he put the glass on the table firmly and looked at me. "I shouldn't have brought you into Paris. Now we're all in the same place - you, me, Darius... two others that I know of, possibly more. Horton is smarter than I gave him credit for."

I was horrified. "Surely he is not planning to kill us all? It would be madness!"

"It would send one hell of a message, not only Immortals on his hit list but sympathizers, any Mortal they think is a danger to them. A little Reign of Terror. I'd heard a rumour that something big was coming; I just didn't know who."

I shook my head, not wanting to believe. Surely this was paranoia and Adam was more prone to psychotic breakdown that I had thought. "Horton has only been back in Paris for a few months; he has not had time to arrange such a thing."

He sighed. "For a smart bastard, you sometimes amaze me with how na•ve you can be, Rene. Think about it: he got sent to some backwater hell hole right after you tried to kill him. Be sure he blames you for that. Hell, he probably blames you for surviving his attempt to kill _you_ that night." He winked and clicked his tongue. "He's just an all-round bastard of a guy. Now he's back - as Darius' Watcher. He hates Darius with a passion because Darius has a past - he doesn't even bother keeping it secret - yet he pulled strings to get Ian Bancroft assigned elsewhere and get himself put on Darius. That was that idiot Shapiro's doing. Give me another Lebeau any day. I think Horton was a very busy boy when he was off in limbo, kept in touch with his loyal cronies, promised them glory on his return. Stop me if I'm not making any sense."

I rested my head on my hand. I had been a blind fool, too besotted with my new life to watch my own back. "You are sure?"

"I wasn't. Now it's blindingly obvious. And don't worry about putting me in danger in the future; it's more dangerous not knowing."

I sat back and looked at him. This was not the Adam Pierson I knew. This was something more, much more. I had seen this man before; this was the man whose face I had seen when I told him that Horton had put a gun to my head, the man who had rescued me from the alley. Adam Pierson was afraid of his own shadow and hid in dusty libraries; this man could lead armies. "Then we must act."

He smiled; it was a grim smile, a pressing of the lips, a jutting of the chin. "No... not a good idea. I want you to go home and stay there. Don't go to work tomorrow; in fact, don't go anywhere until you hear from me."

"What about you? You may be a target as much as I."

"Believe it. It was me Horton contacted and now I'm out in the open, where he wants me. And I have no intention of getting my head shot off." His face softened; he was telling me not to worry, but how could I not? "I'll stay well out of their way. And, Rene... don't expect them to respect Holy Ground."

****

"And did you?" Miss Thomas asks. "Go home, I mean?"

"Not exactly." And I am out of cigarettes. "Miss Thomas, may I take you to dinner?"

It takes a moment for her to answer; she is still unsure of me, _sans doute_. "Very well, Doctor. I should eat something; perhaps it will keep me from worrying for an hour or two."

"_Bon_. And your father has a safe here, _non_?"

"Yes, of course. I have the combination."

"Then we should put these photographs in there, I think."

She nods. Such sadness. "Of course. Give them to me."

I take the photographs and tapes out of my knapsack and give them to her. While she takes them to the safe, I put my jacket on. My nerves are a little better; perhaps telling secrets was good for them, who knows? When she returns, she has her coat. I help her with it. 

"There's a nice little place just down the street," she says.

"Then I shall let you guide me, Mademoiselle. I should warn you, however; it is possible that we will be observed."

"What?"

"I am being followed. I saw no-one in the Metro, but that means nothing. I am quite sure they have been observing Le Blues. It is nothing to be concerned about, merely M. Gabrieli keeping an eye on us all, I believe." I smile and we walk to the front door. 

"Do you suppose he suspects?"

I shrug. "I have no idea what he thinks. But I do not wish to give him food for thought, _vous comprenez_?"

I pick up my knapsack and we leave. Outside, I look for anything suspicious but there appears to be nothing. However, I have been wrong before. It has stopped raining. I stop at a little shop for cigarettes. The bistro is just a few doors down and I am not at all surprised when the waiter greets her by name. No doubt her father eats here often. We settle ourselves comfortably and look at the menu. 

"I must admit I'm quite hungry," she says. "Thank you for bringing me, Doctor. Being there all day worrying, watching Stephen get drunk was probably not a good idea. I just can't help wondering where they've got to."

"Adam may not have a Watcher but I do believe that M. Gabrieli has someone observing his comings and goings. He knows they are in Scotland; if anything has gone wrong, I believe you would have been informed."

She sighs. "In other circumstances, that would distress me but I find I'm grateful for his concern. Should I be?"

"I do not think M. Gabrieli wishes you or your father harm. I ask myself why he would pump me for information on Adam, knowing that I can say nothing without breaking confidentiality and that is a serious matter. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think he knows that Adam is immortal, yet he has no proof and cannot assign a Watcher without that. He may even suspect that Adam is Methos, which would explain why he is so concerned for this one particular Immortal." I pause while I light a cigarette.

"Would you mind if I had another one of those?" 

I give her one and light it for her. The waiter comes and takes our order. I have decided on the _specialite de la maison_, a baked cod dish; Mlle Thomas asks for a salad with smoked duck, which would have been my other choice. When the waiter leaves, she takes a deep drag on the cigarette and regards me with a look of curiosity. "What makes you think that?"

"It is only a theory. I wanted an explanation for his curiosity about Adam, to begin with. Now that I know he has taken all our files - mine, yours, your father's - I see a connection. All of us - and Stephen, but I have his file myself - are in a position to watch Adam most closely, more closely even than a Watcher. I hear his intimate thoughts," I shrug, "those he will tell me, of course. And Joseph is his closest friend. All of us are deeply involved in Adam's continued well-being, do you see? I now believe that Gabrieli suspects that Adam is Methos and that he wishes Methos to survive, to continue. He cannot have him Watched; therefore, we are his Watchers, whether we know it or not, a sort of Methos Project Field Team, if you like. And we are very good at what we do."

"And so we must also survive. Including you, Doctor. I think you should go to him, lay it out, ask for his protection. He will grant you amnesty, I'm sure."

"And that would send a message to others, who would most certainly wish to keep me quiet. I have stayed alive because I have kept my mouth shut." I shake my head. "No, Miss Thomas. The Regional Director is not all-powerful; I doubt that he would be able to save me from a tribunal. And he would be damning himself. We both have enemies, he and I; Shapiro is waiting in the wings to make a come-back, for one. Did you know that?"

She frowns deeply. "No, I didn't. And how do you know this? Or perhaps I shouldn't ask. No doubt it's privileged information."

"And 'privileged information' is one of the reasons that those who are afraid of me would wish me silenced. I know a great deal - not perhaps as much as they think, but enough to make them sleep badly at night."

"It wouldn't have to be official. You could arrange to meet him somewhere, as we are doing now."

"He and I never meet casually. It would arouse suspicion in the wrong places."

The waiter brings our food and we suspend the conversation until we are finished. I am too distracted to enjoy it as I normally would. She also has other things on her mind, I see. And I cannot blame her at all. It has hardly been a good day. When we are done, the waiter returns. We both decline dessert but accept the suggestion of cognac with our coffee. When it is brought, I light another cigarette; she declines my offer. I stretch out my legs comfortably and wait for her to say something. 

She stares into her coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with a slender finger. Perhaps she is wishing that it was Adam sitting at this table with her. "Did you never consider turning yourself in and taking them all down, Doctor? Ending it all right there?"

I shrug. "_Mais, certainement_. One always thinks these things."

"And why didn't you do it? You could have saved Darius' life. And others. Why not make the ultimate sacrifice? You must have thought you deserved your punishment."

It is a bitter statement, lacking in compassion, and one which I shall not grace with a reply. She is upset, worried.

She rests her forehead on her hand, still staring into her coffee. "Oh, Lord. Don't answer that. I can't possibly imagine how you felt."

I smile and drink some brandy. "Do you forgive me for still being alive while others are not? Are we not all alive while others are not? I forgave myself a long time ago, Mademoiselle." And I wonder if that is the truth.

"Did you at least try to save Darius?"

****

I left Adam immediately, intent, at first, on doing what he asked. But suppose they knew where I lived and came for me there? I could not tolerate such a thought; I would do nothing to put Mathilde and Nikki in danger. I thought of going to Sean but I doubted they would respect Holy Ground. Adam was right in this. I would use the apartment on the rue Montera; there was no-one there at the moment and I had a key. I ducked down the Metro station at Chatelet and was in Porte de Vincennes in fifteen minutes. 

I did not need the apartment very much in those days; indeed, I rarely came into Paris if I could avoid it and since Mathilde's christening a month before, I had not been there at all. Only one other psychiatrist on Sean's staff used the apartment; we each had clothing there, in case of emergencies. And this was an emergency. 

The first thing was to telephone Sean and tell him what we suspected. After that, it was up to him. For all Sean Burns was the calmest man I had ever known, he was no fool. He thanked me and told me to be careful. He promised to call Nikki and tell her that I had an emergency case in Paris and would be delayed, possibly for several days. When I hung up the telephone, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands. I could no longer see the blood on them but it was there. And yet I wanted to live.

I took out the valise with my few clothes in it and changed into the dark pull, the one I always wore on an assignment. I should have burned it for its memories, but for now, I needed it this once, at least. I still carried a gun at my back in those days; I was not so much a fool yet as to believe I was completely safe and yet this was still a shock, the reality that I had come to believe was only remote. It was like a knife in my gut, sharp and burning.

For the first time, my thoughts were to save the lives of Immortals. Sean would do the right thing, I knew; Darius was another problem. I would go myself and convince him to leave. Or I would stay there to protect him when they came; perhaps if I were to lose my life that night, it could be the price I paid as ransom for another. 

I heard footsteps on the stairs outside the door. There were others in the apartment house but this was a slow creaking on the stairs, not the swift passage of someone anxious to be home. A prickling sensation crept over my brain and my hand went to my gun. The footsteps, heavy and muffled, stopped at the door. They must have followed me. Or perhaps they had been waiting - it did not matter. My heart raced. I went toward the bathroom, just as my door broke open. I ran to the window and was already on the roof when I heard Eddie Brill's voice behind me, "Your time's come, you son of a bitch!" 

I scrambled across the roof tiles and slipped, falling to my hands and knees just as the first bullet whistled past my ear. A loose tile slid off the roof and smashed in the courtyard below. I turned and got off a shot while getting back to my feet. Another bullet just grazed my side, burning like hell. I reached the roof pitch and fired again as I tumbled over the other side. But my foot caught on something and I fell hard, sliding over the edge and onto the ground some ten feet below. 

The breath was knocked out of me and the pain was terrible. I had surely broken some ribs but my legs were good. I tried to stand and the pain shot through my back and chest like a hot iron. I shrieked with the shock of it but kept going. Behind me, I heard Eddie's voice screaming that I had shot someone. That was one kill that would not haunt my dreams. I heard him behind me, scrambling over the roof tiles, and another bullet just missed my head. I was lucky that it was dark already or his aim would most assuredly have been better and I would have been lying on my face in the gutter. 

I could not run; certainly I could not outrun Eddie. I heard him drop to the ground not ten metres behind me and another shot went wide of me. I was behind the shops now and there was a trash bin looming to one side. I swung myself into it and lay still, my gun ready. It stank to high heaven but it might keep me alive. I heard Eddie running up the alley right past me. Surely he would think to look here... 

_O my God, I am most heartily sorry for having offended Thee..._

I heard his footsteps slow and stop. He had seen me fall, heard me cry out. He must have known I was hurt and could not go far... 

_Pater noster qui es in caelis..._

The pain was bearable if I lay still. It was painful even to breathe but I made myself breathe deeply, trying to calm myself so that I could think. I heard Eddie's boots on the stones; he was coming back...

_Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum..._

"Hey, you bastard!" Eddie was yelling. "I'll get you, you son of a bitch!"

His footsteps stopped beside the bin. I heard him laugh. "Found you, asshole." He kicked the side of the bin and I held the gun ready. At least he would die with me... 

_Oh, my darling child... I am so sorry..._

"A dumpster! Very fitting. Now you can die like the piece of garbage you are, my friend." And I heard him begin to climb.

I have never in my life been so grateful for the sound of police sirens. The neighbours must have heard the shots and called them. 

"Fuck it!" Silence. He was listening. Then he kicked the side of the bin one more time. "Don't think you're safe, asshole. I can wait."

And I heard him running away. And yet I could not let the police find me. There would be so many questions; I might even spend the night in a cell and I had no wish to do that. I could hear it... "Why do you have a gun? Who were you firing at? Why was he pursuing you? We have a file on you..." No, I must stay where I was. 

I heard them come into the alley, shouting and running. I could see the beams of flashlights in the air. The stench was making me nauseous but better that than a cell. 

I waited, trying not to throw up, trying to ignore the pain. _Tais-toi,_ Rene, I told myself. _Calme-toi_. Hold on. They will give up and go away. 

And they did, although it seemed like a very long time. I still stayed where I was. Perhaps Eddie had been frightened off - or perhaps he was only waiting for the police to leave, as was I. But I felt myself going into shock. I would need to be somewhere warm and quiet. And I would need to have my ribs taped. There was only one place I could think of - Adam's apartment. Who else could I go to? My car was on the other side of Paris and I dared not go back to the apartment I had just fled. It would be suicide. If I had indeed shot someone..._ Oh, mon Dieu!_ There would be a body I could not explain. I would be spending more than one night in that cell. The police would still be there, would still be looking for me, looking for whoever had been in that apartment, had fallen off a roof and run down an alley... 

I must have lain there for over two hours. More than once I heard voices passing me. Eventually, the voices did not come back and I steeled myself to move. The pain was worse than before and I very nearly cried out again. I must be quiet; my life might still depend on it. I managed to climb out of the bin; the effort cost me great pain and I nearly fainted. And I stank to high heaven. But I had my wallet in my pocket, at least, with enough money for a taxi. I could not get to Adam's apartment any other way. Certainly, I could not walk that far. I walked to the end of the alley and out onto the street. I could not stand straight and every step burned through me. But if I wanted to live, if I wanted to see my daughter again...

A taxi stopped for me and when I got into the back seat, the driver demanded to know if I had money to pay him. He must have thought me a drunk. It occurred to me that that was a good cover and I played the part. "I have money!" I told him, in as surly a voice as I could manage. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and showed him.

"All right. Where to? _Merde!_ You stink!"

I gave him a street name close by Adam's apartment. There was a bar there; let him think that was where I was going. It took forever to get there, it seemed. Every little bump in the street tore at my rib cage. The driver observed me in the mirror. 

"Hey, buddy. You okay? Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No," I snarled. "I just need a drink."

I heard him sigh. "Don't throw up on the seat. That's all I ask.'

When we arrived, I gave him a couple of bank notes and told him to keep the change. Before I got out, he put a hand on my arm.

"You need help,_ mon ami_."

"What?"

"You are no drunk, Monsieur. Your beard is neatly trimmed, I do not smell alcohol on you - and drunks never give tips. You understand me? And you are in a lot of pain. I have been watching you. Let me take you to a hospital."

I shook my head. "You never saw me."

And I got out. I was near passing out and shivering. It was shock. Perhaps I had punctured a lung. I must get warm soon. And I would need help.

And perhaps they were watching the apartment. If they were, I could do nothing. I could only hope. I made it to the apartment building and up the stairs, although God alone knows how. At his door, I hesitated. But if they were inside, there was little I could do. I was dead in any case if I could not get help. I put my ear to the door but all I could hear were cats. I tried the handle and it was open. I pushed the door open and went inside, grateful to be safe.

I went straight to the bathroom, stripped off my filthy clothing and got into the shower. I stowed the gun in the laundry basket. After a few minutes under the hot water, I already felt a little better but it was deceiving. I was still shaking and it was not from the cold. I felt my pulse; it was rapid and weak. The skin on my hand was slightly blue. I got out of the shower, dried myself quickly and wrapped myself in Adam's bathrobe. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I would need something hot and sweet. I made tea and put a lot of sugar into it. Then I fetched a blanket from the cupboard - in some ways, Adam was a creature of habit and kept things in logical places - and lay down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around me. I had retrieved the gun from the laundry basket and shoved it under a cushion. The cats were curious but only watched me. I was shivering badly and I could feel myself drifting into sleep - a sleep from which I might never awaken. I was now feverish and my skin was damp and my breathing rapid. The pain around my ribs had not eased. It crossed my mind that I should call for help but I could not think what to do. I wanted only to sleep. And for the pain to go away.

I heard someone on the stairs but, if it was an enemy, I could do nothing. I prayed it was Adam, come back safe. He would know what to do. 

Footsteps came to the door. After a moment's hesitation, it opened. I had left my glasses in the bathroom and could not see who it was. 

"Oh, good Lord!"

I could not place the voice. I heard the door close and a shape came straight toward me.

"Dr. Galbon, isn't it?" the voice asked. "You're Rene Galbon, if I'm not mistaken. What happened?"

"Who is it? I cannot see."

"Oh, I'm sorry. We haven't actually met. Donald Salzer. What's happened?"

"They are going to kill Darius." It was only a whisper.

He did not reply. After a few moments, he sat down on the sofa beside me and touched my shoulder. "Darius is dead, son."

It was a terrible blow, one from which I have perhaps never recovered. I turned my face away; I had failed.

"Looks like they came after you too. I don't know what you did to get on the wrong side of them, but you're lucky. Others weren't."

I turned my face back. I had to know. "Adam?"

The reply was immediate. "He's safe. But you need help. I'm going to call someone and ask for advice. Can't take you to hospital; too dangerous. Can you give me a quick diagnosis so I can tell them?"

"I fell off a roof and perhaps I am bleeding inside. I am in shock."

"Right. I'll make a call."

Perhaps because help had arrived and I could rest, perhaps because the shock of Darius' death was at last more than I could handle, I passed out. When I came to, it was morning. I was lying in Adam's bed, my feet raised, swathed in blankets. I was very weak. There was an IV needle in my hand and someone stood next to me.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," a familiar voice said. It was Pierre Lamartine, a colleague at the hospital, a colleague who knew about Immortals. His hair was a mess and he needed a shave; he had been there all night. "We almost lost you. I'm quite sure you don't have a punctured lung but you have three or perhaps four broken ribs and there is a great deal of bruising, perhaps some internal bleeding. But you have responded well. You are a lucky man; if the shock had gone any deeper, I would have called an ambulance and we may well have lost you. I have taped your ribs and given you saline and glucose, some broad spectrum antibiotics. A lot of rest and you'll be back tormenting patients. I will leave some pain killers. You are to stay here and not move for at least three days. Do I make myself understood? M. Salzer has volunteered to stay with you. I have given him instructions on what to feed you, plenty of fluids - and no smoking." He laughed. "I know you. My back will be turned and you will light up. I can do nothing about that, but do try not to smoke. And don't talk too much. Watch television, play with yourself - just don't get up except to go to the bathroom. Better yet, use a bottle. And if it could be managed, I would have catheterized you." Pierre liked to make jokes; some of them were even amusing. "And I shall return in a few hours to see if you're still breathing."

He removed the IV needle and taped up my hand without saying anything. When he was done, he patted my shoulder and smiled. I had no idea what M. Salzer had told them but Pierre knew that Darius was my Confessor. He was kind enough say nothing.

"Oh. And Sean is safe." 

****

Chapter 10

"M. Salzer was very good to me. He stayed with me until I could manage for myself."

"You mentioned a child, Doctor. I didn't know you had been married. Was that something you erased from your file?"

I stub out my cigarette and rub my forehead with my fingers. "I was never married, Miss Thomas. Nikki is my housekeeper."

"You don't need to sound so defensive about it. A lot of people have children without being married these days. You do have a child?"

I smile at the thought. I had not intended to tell her; it slipped out naturally while I was talking. But then, the lady is also a 'love child'; she will understand. "Yes. Mathilde. She is ten."

She smiles, almost sadly. "You love her very much. And now I know who you meant by 'those I love'. Tell me - do you have a mistress?"

The question shocks me but I suppose it is a logical one. "That is a private matter, Mademoiselle. To ask this does not become you." 

She shrugs. "It's a logical question, Doctor. A man with your taste for women is hardly likely to be celibate."

"Martine is my lover - and my friend. 'Mistress' sounds like a business arrangement. And I do not see how this concerns you."

"I'm trying to understand you." 

I smile and finish the cognac. "I am not difficult to understand."

"You are a murderer and a liar." I look straight at her; these are the words Eddie used. "You killed people by cutting their heads off in a rage. How could you do such a horrible thing? I will never understand and I will never accept it; I don't care how repentant you are. I can forgive Ben; it's how he has to live. But you? And yet you are a loving father. It's a combination I find difficult to comprehend." And she sees it in her own father; Joseph and I are perhaps not so different. 

"I know better than anyone what I did - I do not defend myself. Yet how is it your place to forgive me or not? It is arrogance itself, Mademoiselle."

She is defiant but does not pursue it. "What happened to Ben?" she asks. Her voice is slightly tremulous. I had thought her nervousness under control but I see that I was mistaken. Whenever the subject returns to Adam, she becomes frightened. She should have more faith in him; he has, after all, survived for five millennia. Still, love makes us foolish. 

I signal to the waiter for more coffee; when he comes, I ask him for the bill. 

"Somehow they poisoned him with PCP, 'Angel Dust', and he was in the emergency room, heavily restrained and raving..."

"Oh, my God!" 

I ignore the outburst. "I supposed at the time that they decided that killing him without obvious cause would have resulted in an investigation and the connection to Horton would have been easy to uncover." I shrug. "It was too dangerous for them to kill him."

"And do you still believe this?"

I sigh and drink some coffee. "Up until last Friday, yes, but now... no, I do not. I believe that Horton was convinced that Adam was an Immortal. Adam also believes this. But I also believe that he suspected that Adam was Methos. I know now that he once laid a trap for Methos and that it was sprung by Adam. It was dismissed as clumsiness on the part of an over-zealous Methos historian who had heard that a new chronicle had come to light; but I think that Horton began at that time to believe that Adam was Methos. And when he went to Adam about me, he knew. It was to flush out Methos himself, to make him reveal himself - and butcher him along with Darius. That would have sent the greatest message of all: even Methos himself was not safe from the Hunters. And I have no idea how he was poisoned. Perhaps one day he will tell me."

She sighs heavily and furrows her forehead. "I can't think of Ben as someone's trophy."

"No. It is unpleasant. But it is the truth. Unless you see this, you can never understand what drives him. And there will always be someone who sees it this way." She picks up her coffee cup and stares into it for a moment before draining it. I think she wants to ask me something but is afraid. "Miss Thomas?"

She puts the cup down and looks at me. "Doctor... is Ben insane?"

"No, Adam is most definitely not insane. Those suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder have delusional episodes, psychotic breaks, yes - American psychiatrists call them 'flashbacks' - and these can be quite severe; it depends on the degree of trauma. But these people are not insane. When he is delusional, Adam is not aware of his surroundings, he is dissociated from reality - and that is the definition of insanity, _c'est vrai _- but when he does not have these episodes, when he is no longer delusional, he knows that he was hallucinating. That is all the difference in the world. Do you see? An insane person does not know that he is insane. _Vous comprenez?_"

She closes her eyes and sighs. It is relief. "Yes, I see. Thank you."

"May I ask what happened today?"

She smiles with her mouth, no more. "Oh, yes. Stephen. It would seem that dear Stephen was rather put out yesterday when Adam never showed his face. He thought he deserved at least a note telling him where they'd gone. And he wasn't exactly thrilled about facing you - no more than I was. He sulked all evening and this morning he stormed into the bar, expecting to find him with my father. You should have seen his face when he realized nobody was there. He'd been left high and dry and he was ready to spit nails. It was really rather funny. He can be such a prig!"

"I did get this impression also."

"Anyway," she adds, "I told him I was expecting a call from my father. At first, I thought I should tell him where they were but he would only have run off after them. So I fed him some beer. And some more beer." She snorts in disgust. "He gets into an awful mood when he's drunk. Frankly, I was quite relieved when you showed up." 

"I shall call him in the morning and tell him all is well. I agree, he should not be told until we know."

"My father will not exactly appreciate it when he hears I got Stephen drunk."

"I am not about to tell him," I say, smiling.

"When he gets home... Oh, God. I nearly forgot. It's Thanksgiving this week and I'm sure my father invited Azar Davani. Do you know her?"

I shrug. "Adam's academic advisor? I know of her."

She looks at me. "They're dating, you know."

"Your father and Dr. Davani? This upsets you?"

She rests her forehead on her hand again. I believe it means she is looking into herself, being honest. "You know, it does. I think I'm a little jealous, if that makes any sense."

I smile at her. "It makes a great deal of sense. Your relationship with your father is a new one; the two of you are making up for lost time. It is not surprising that you would resent sharing him with a stranger just yet. Perhaps you should tell him how you feel. Communication always saves a great deal of bad feeling later. And children always have difficulty thinking of their parents making love."

She smiles. "Now you're sounding like a psychiatrist. But I will keep it in mind. Perhaps we should go back and you can tell me the rest of it."

I pay the bill with my credit card and we walk back to Le Blues in silence. When we are back in the office, I tell her about Eddie, about what he wants from me, where he is, and about Harold Croft, that I suspect he has the tape. I cannot bring myself to tell her what is on the tape, only that it is damning indeed. She senses my shame, I think, and does not press it. 

"And what can we do?" she asks. 

I shake my head. I am very weary - weary in my soul. Perhaps it is what is happening and perhaps it is the memories all this has brought bubbling through the mud. I take off my glasses and rub my face and eyes. I need to sleep. "_'Sais pas. C'est tard_... Oh, forgive me, Mademoiselle - when I am tired, my English... it disappears. It is late and I can no longer think today. Perhaps tomorrow something will occur to me."

"I can do some digging on Croft, see what the story is on Eddie..." She stops to hold a hand over her mouth while she yawns. The food has made her sleepy; we will both think much better in the morning. "I'm sorry. I seem to have had enough for one day myself. I think I'm just going to curl up on the sofa and worry about it in the morning."

I nod and stand. I put my glasses back on and retrieve my jacket and my knapsack. "I will tell the hospital that I will not be in to work this week. I cannot consider a normal life again until this is over - and until Adam is safely back."

"I'll let you know when I hear something if you will leave me your number."

"Of course." She hands me a note pad and a pencil. "I give you my cell phone as well. And I shall try to remember to turn it on."

I write the numbers and hand her the note pad. She stands. "May I drive you home?"

"I think not, Mademoiselle. If they are watching, it is best I leave alone, _non_?"

She smiles a cold smile. "Of course."

"We will speak tomorrow, yes?"

She nods. Her face is a mask; there is no kindness there. "I'll give it some thought. I am not your friend, Doctor. It would be foolish of you to think that but, whatever else you might be, you are no fool. I don't know how much of what you told me tonight is true. This is for Ben. And your daughter. If it were not for them, I would consider turning you over to the Council myself and damn the consequences. And if I find you've been lying to me, I might still do that. Knowing all this and doing nothing would endanger me and my father and I can't allow that without good cause."

It is honest; I expected no more. "This is enough." 

Before I leave, I turn back to her. "Miss Thomas - when your father calls, tell him that I was in a great rage and that I have offered to string him up by his thumbs. All right?"

Outside, I light a cigarette and walk back to the Metro. I do not bother to look for a tail; if he is there, whoever he is, well, then, he is there and there is nothing I can do. 

_Ah, que je suis fatigue_ - I am very tired. Perhaps tonight I will sleep. And I did not speak to Mathilde on the telephone. On Sunday evenings, I always call. Just to talk. I will call before she goes to school in the morning. It is my birthday next Saturday. If this is over - and if I am still alive and at liberty - I will go home.

On the Metro, it is quite quiet. There is a pain in my side and I wince at it. It is arthritis in the old breaks in the ribs. They often hurt me but I usually ignore it. This night... this night, I notice such things. And it seems that I cannot stop thinking.

Yes, M. Salzer was very good to me. He knew who I was, of course, better than anyone, most likely. I was in his new database. He must have puzzled over the lack of information in my records; no doubt he suspected something, although very likely it was not that I was a Hunter. Perhaps he thought I was covering up a clandestine affair with someone higher up the ladder than I. I had a certain reputation, after all. I smile at the idea. Yes, that is most likely what he thought. Perhaps he joked about it with Adam, who would have been only too happy to confirm the rumours about my nocturnal habits. Ah, but those were the days.

I was very grateful to see M. Salzer; quite possibly it saved my life. But he avoided my questions that first morning when I asked why he had come. "To feed Adam's cats," he told me. 

Of course. Adam's cats. They needed to be fed... 

I was barely conscious for all I was awake. I thought it likely that Pierre had given me something to keep me calm, as well as the painkillers. I had, after all, been stalked and nearly murdered. And it certainly felt like a sedative. "Where is he?"

He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, resting his forearms on his thighs. "He's in the emergency room at Hopital Saint-Louis, diagnosed with PCP poisoning. He reacted very badly to the drug and it is quite serious."

I was not sure what he was telling me. Adam had been drugged? But neither was I in any fit condition to think and my thoughts drifted. Within a few minutes, I was asleep again.

I slept for the best part of three days. Pierre deliberately kept me sedated; not only did it keep me quiet, it kept me from doing anything rash. I was, after all, in hiding. He came every day to check on me. I barely remember his visits. We had been in medical school together and he knew that I could be very rash when angry; and I would most certainly be angry when I had time to think of what had happened - and when the grief from Darius' death came home to me. Pierre knew what he was doing.

And I could not think of leaving the apartment. Eddie would most certainly be watching for me, waiting to finish what he started. 

When I was in my right mind again, M. Salzer told me that Adam had been admitted to the psychiatric ward. He himself had not realized what such a drug could do to the nervous system; he was very worried. And now I am most reluctant to prescribe medication for Adam's current condition. Yet moderate doses of some of the milder anti-psychotics might just help. It is a dilemma. 

And it is good to have an ally, even one who quite possibly now hates me, although she is very upset. I have no idea what we can do. But I am sure that two can do it better than one. And what of Eddie? How long can I leave that sleeping dog lie in that abbey before I act one way or another? He will not be patient for very long.

When I get back to the apartment, I let Mazout in and pour a vodka and orange juice. I collapse onto the sofa, roll a cigarette and smoke while Mazout lies purring on my lap. Perhaps tomorrow I will think of something.

****

Monday, November 25

I have slept. Not well, but I have slept. I have just telephoned to Reims and spoken to Mathilde. She has a birthday present for me and is most anxious that I be home for that. You are not the only one, _ma grande_. Nikki sounded well; she asked me if I planned to have friends to dinner on Saturday. I told her that I preferred to have a quiet evening but that I could not promise even that I would be in Reims this weekend.

I find that I am not hungry and skip breakfast. I make coffee and take it to the sofa. I roll a cigarette and try to make some kind of a plan. As I smoke quietly and drink the coffee, I realize that I have no idea how to proceed. I call Mlle Thomas; she has heard nothing but will ask those she trusts at Headquarters to find out whatever there is to know about Eddie and Harold Croft. But these things take time and I am notoriously impatient. I call Stephen. He is unwell. I do not feel sympathetic; he deserves his hangover. Last, I call the clinic and tell them that I am ill and cannot work this week. I am rarely ill and almost never take a day off; arrangements will be made for my patients and I am surprised by the relief I feel.

I think that perhaps I should go to Headquarters myself; but this is not a good idea. My appearance there would be most unusual and I have no legitimate reason to be looking for information on Headquarters staff who are not my patients. And it is on record that I was there yesterday. On the other hand...

I have almost convinced myself that the risk is worth taking when the telephone rings. It is David Gabrieli and my stomach tightens. Would I present myself in his office in one hour?

My palms are damp and my heart is racing. Not to mention the headache that has just erupted behind my eyes. Perhaps he only wishes to speak to me about Adam, tell me where he is. I have a right to know, after all; it is logical that he would inform me. But why at his office? I feel nauseous. I go to the bathroom and shave carefully; my beard does not need a trim. I have a shower and dress myself correctly. I put Mazout out on the roof and leave. 

When I get into my car, I try not to let my nerves get the better of me. I have brought the gun and place it in the glove compartment again and lock it. I take a few moments to calm myself and light a cigarette. I have even remembered to bring my cell phone and turn it on. When I drive onto the street, I look for the black Honda and the blue Citroen but they are not there. Which means nothing. They could merely be using a different car; it is what I would do.

On the way, it takes all my training to keep myself calm, to keep my thoughts from being out of control. I cannot overlook the possibility that I have been denounced. I know nothing yet, I tell myself; do not anticipate what he will tell you. Speculation will only lead to uncontrolled thoughts, to paranoia. You run the risk of condemning yourself out of your own mouth, Rene. _Tais-toi_. Listen to music, think of Martine, watch in the rear view mirror. Distract yourself. I put a CD into the player, some Bach cantatas, and concentrate on watching the traffic, looking for any car which might be with me longer than is sensible. I think of Martine on Saturday night, how she looked, how she felt in my arms, her warm skin against mine - and I smoke steadily.

When I get to Headquarters, I am still in control. It is essential. I park and get out. At the door, the security guard asks me for my identification and tells me to sign the log. I am rarely here during the week and he does not know me. He asks me my business and I tell him that I have an appointment with the Regional Director. He nods politely and allows me to pass.

Gabrieli's office is at the rear of the building, away from the noise. His secretary recognizes me and smiles warmly.

"We don't see you very often any more, Doctor," she says. "The Director is expecting you, if you'd like to wait in there. He won't be long." And she indicates a small anteroom.

"_Merci, Madame_."

My nerves are suddenly on fire. I have never been very good with authority and avoid such situations even at the best of times. I take off my coat and sit in the straightback chair in the anteroom, then light a cigarette. The secretary calls to me that there is no smoking and I pinch it between my fingers. _Merde!_ When her telephone rings, I jump in spite of myself. She answers it and tells me to go in.

When I enter, Gabrieli is writing something. He looks up only briefly to acknowledge my presence and continues to write. The room is very modest, not the one Shapiro or Anders chose. Their tastes tended toward the grand style.

"Be seated, please, Doctor Galbon. I'll be with you in a moment."

I take the chair in front of the small but tasteful Georgian desk. I recognize it; it is the same one used by M. Lebeau, brought here from the Academy. I remember standing in front of it all those years ago while he read out the long list of my youthful sins. It suits Gabrieli's modest sensibilities.

He finishes writing and sets the paper aside. When he looks up at me, there is no particular emotion, only a polite smile.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. I called the clinic, assuming you were there, and was told that you were ill and would be at the apartment. Nothing serious, I hope."

"In fact, Monsieur, I am quite well, merely very tired. I have been very anxious about Adam Pierson. His condition is serious and I do not know where he is."

He folds his hands and leans back in his chair. "He's quite safe. He's in Scotland - with my permission. Your concern is admirable but everything is under control. I'm sure you can both use the rest."

"Perhaps, Monsieur, you are not aware of the severity of Adam's condition. I would be much happier if he were under professional supervision, _bien sur_, but he will not consent to entering the clinic; therefore, that professional must be myself and I must consider the possibility of having him committed. This much I can tell you. With all due respect, you do not have the expertise to judge such things."

"Then perhaps in future, Doctor, you will tell me more so that I can judge for myself."

I smile to myself. _Touche_. It would seem that I have been put in my place. "And if it is not to discuss my patient, may I ask why I am here?"

"I should like you to accompany me for an early lunch."

I am amused - but very worried. "I take it I am not free to decline the offer."

He smiles pleasantly. "I enjoy your company, Doctor."

He stands and gestures toward the door.

In the anteroom, I retrieve my coat; he has taken his from the coat tree in his office and leads the way. The secretary smiles at me as I pass. 

On the way out, I sign the log. Gabrieli walks to his private parking space and gets into the grey Peugeot parked there and I follow. It is not the black Mercedes he could drive if he wished; that is owned by the Company, a perk that goes with the rank of Regional Director. Instead, it is a very ordinary car, out of keeping with his own tastes. Perhaps M. Gabrieli also fears being followed, _non_? I go to the passenger side and get in. 

He says nothing to me but starts the engine and drives out of the parking lot. He does not speak until we are on the road.

"Smoke if you wish, Doctor. You seem a little nervous today."

I ignore the remark but take the cigarette out of my pocket and light it. He leans forward and pulls open the ashtray for me. I must maintain control without appearing to be insubordinate, always a difficult game with someone as intelligent as David Gabrieli. But then, he will allow me to retain control; confident men have no difficulty respecting the dignity of others, even those they dislike. It is a fine quality in a leader. If I must have a superior, I could do very much worse. Shapiro, for example. The man is an idiot without any understanding of those around him. If he had not bungled the Galati affair, he might still be in power. Horton's legacy of destruction lived after him. Lives after him still, perhaps I should say.

"You're very quiet, Doctor, but I remember your telling me that it came with the job. Are you still satisfied with your job?"

I take a drag on the cigarette, looking straight ahead. "It's what I do."

"And you do it admirably. How is your daughter?" I nearly choke on the smoke and I cough. "You shouldn't hide her away in Reims. She's very pretty."

A cold shock goes down my spine but I must maintain control. Control will see me through, I tell myself. It is all I have. Of course, a very large cognac would be very nice. "She lives a quiet life, Monsieur. I wish to keep it that way."

He does not take his eyes from the road; he is allowing me room to compose myself. If I have been denounced, it will take all my wits to stay alive, God help me. I concentrate on keeping my breathing slow; it is a battle I am losing.

And now I notice where we are going - this is where I came yesterday after I left Headquarters. He is telling me that he knows where I was. And does he also know what I did in Croft's office? Or is he fishing? _Calme-toi,_ Rene! Do not jump to conclusions or you are a dead man. I finish the cigarette and watch the traffic for a tail; it is already becoming a habit. 

When he parks the car almost precisely where I parked yesterday, my breathing is deep and rapid; I am sure he is looking for such signs and he cannot help but notice. _Tant pis._ I cannot control everything. I say nothing; my silence tells him all he wishes to know. It is hardly a surprise that he knows I was here; I was followed, after all, although it does confirm that Blue Citroen and Black Honda were Gabrieli's men. That much is a relief. What concerns me is that Gabrieli _wishes_ me to know. 

I get out of the car and close the door. He gestures to his right - the direction of the bistro. I walk deliberately, with a steady pace, to the bistro and go in without hesitating. He is behind me. He knows now that I need no more proof; he has made his point.

I lead the way to a discreet corner away from anyone - and from any windows - take my coat off and sit down. He sits opposite me. 

"How was the spaghetti bolognese?" he asks. 

I smile a little. "It was excellent. I highly recommend it."

"Lunch is on the Company, Doctor. Have whatever you wish. Cognac?"

It is tempting but I need to keep a very clear head. "Thank you, no. Coffee."

When the waiter comes, Gabrieli asks for two coffees - in excellent French - and tells him we will order a little later.

He rests one elbow on the arm of the chair and fingers his chin. "You present me with a considerable problem, Dr. Galbon." He regards me intently and I meet his gaze. For the first time, I notice that he appears weary, a little older than last week; no doubt he thinks the same of me. He sighs and drops his hand onto the table. "A very considerable problem. You committed some very serious crimes, Doctor. Under normal circumstances, I would be only too pleased to have you arrested and executed. I would not lose any sleep over pulling the trigger myself."

****

Chapter 11

And so it is over. It was inevitable, I suppose. I have considered for years what this moment would be like. Would I feel terror? Anger? Would I rage against God and my own stupidity? And now that it has come, I find that I am hoping only that I will not disgrace myself. I take off my glasses and rest my forehead in my hand for a moment to compose myself before facing him. At least I have made my peace with God. 

He says nothing, waiting. The waiter brings the coffee and I sit up. When the waiter puts the coffee in front of me, I look at him. _"Cognac, s'il vous plait. Double._" 

"_Oui, Monsieur._"

I feel my hand tremble a little as I pick up the coffee cup. When the waiter leaves, Gabrieli crosses his legs and folds his hands on his stomach in the relaxed posture he appears to prefer. "You have enemies, Doctor. But I suppose you know that. And I suspect they are also mine."

_Oh, mon Dieu!_ The tape. Was it not Croft who had it after all? Has someone given it to Gabrieli? I can say nothing until he tells me in case I am wrong. I put my glasses back on and regard him. "You have not brought me here just to tell me this. There is something you want from me, something you wish to remain between us."

He smiles and inclines his head toward me. "Indeed."

Be very careful, Rene; he plays a dangerous game. And so do you, my friend. So do you. Does he still test me? I shake my head. "I cannot reveal what I know of Adam Pierson and I will not. And I do not believe you will condemn me for this."

"No. For all I abhor what you did, Doctor, I admire your sense of ethics. Do you find that a little... absurd?" He pauses while the waiter brings me my cognac and I drink a little. I wish dearly for a cigarette. "In case you're wondering, no-one has had the courage to denounce you to my face. There was only an anonymous note suggesting your involvement in the assassination - for want of a better word - of certain Immortals, particularly a Viking named Rodrig Ericsson. The note was quite specific about that one. Seven in all and not all in Paris." My throat tightens at the sound of the name and my teeth clench. Surely he refers to the tape. _Mon Dieu_. Let it not be the tape. "Frankly, I didn't believe it. I went through your records personally - I would never trust such a sensitive matter to others, especially since I preferred to believe you innocent. They contained no damning evidence but there were certain... anomalies. To the casual observer, they would mean nothing. The writer of the note must have known you well. It suggested a pattern, things to look for - things that weren't there and should have been." He clasps his hands together and cocks his head, waiting for a response.

I am quite nauseous. I take some of the cognac but it does not help. "I see."

"In 1987 and '88, I seem to recall, you took several months off work due to illness. It was very sudden; one day you were quite well and the next you were _in communicado_ at the clinic for several weeks. You were even paid for extended sick leave for those months. And yet, there is nothing in your file to explain it, no entry from your supervisor, no medical records and there must at one time have been a medical history to support the payment of the money. One of the older secretaries remembers it. You used to bring her flowers and then you simply weren't there. She remembers that quite clearly; you made quite an impression on her. And she remembers sending your cheques to the clinic as usual."

He is not gloating, I am quite sure. He wishes merely to prove to me that he means what he says. It is all quite correct. The flowers. I remember the lady, a widow, lonely but full of gentleness for lost souls like myself. Am I to be condemned because I was once kind to a woman who showed kindness to me?

"I called the clinic and spoke to a colleague of yours. He refused to give me a diagnosis, of course, but he did confirm that you were admitted by Sean Burns and were a patient of his for quite a while. The date of that admission was one day after the murder of the Immortal known as Rodrig Ericsson - as the note suggested. It said you would know the name."

The words sear themselves into my mind, my body, strip me of pretense; it is done. The memories, the images of fear and blood, the faces, the voices pleading for mercy come tumbling out of hiding, invade the brain with their needles of guilt and I am almost overwhelmed by the desire to tell him everything. But I know that the drive to confess is often the response of the guilty - and I _am_ guilty. He waits; he also knows this. Yet the desire is fleeting and it passes easily, perhaps because I have already confessed... 

_Pardonnez-moi, Mon Dieu, parce-que j'ai peche... _

"You did leave a trail, but it's far from being an obvious one. The writer offered no proof, only accusation. Accusations without proof, offered by an anonymous party, are not enough to condemn a man, especially not one with your exemplary record for the past fifteen years. It is circumstantial - and I choose to believe it. And they're gunning for you; that's its own proof." He pauses and I drink some more cognac. He is telling me that he will not pursue it - unless...? There are always conditions. "You look relieved, Doctor. Am I right in thinking that proof exists?"

Oh, thank God! He does not know! "Proof always exists, Monsieur, for those who know where to look."

He chuckles. "That's not the answer I was looking for. I have a gun to your head, Doctor; now is not the time to play cute. Is there proof?"

I sigh and nod. "Yes."

He waits; he is unsatisfied with the response but I can say nothing. "Not enough, I'm afraid. Have you no interest in saving your own skin? For your daughter's sake, at least?"

I am reluctant; it is painful. I have kept quiet for so long.

"Let me lay it out for you. I can go either way on this. If I turn you over to the Council, with or without proof, it sends one message: that I will deal with you all ruthlessly and immediately, even those in high places with spotless records. And if I say nothing, it sends another: that I'm not a witchhunter and won't tolerate unsubstantiated accusations from anonymous parties who just might be settling old scores of their own." He shrugs. "Either way, I win. Now tell me: what is this 'proof'?"

No, I cannot. "And if you do not go to the Council, you will perhaps have stepped into your own grave, Monsieur. If proof of my involvement comes to the surface and you have backed me, your own cause is lost, is this not so? As you say, my enemies are your enemies and we have many of them. Even this..." I gesture about us, "will be seen by your enemies to mean that you are weak. If you had intended to go to the Council, I would already be in a cell; I would not be here sharing a meal with you. If you go to the Council now, they will ask why we were having this little _tete-a-tete_." I shrug. "You need to destroy this proof as much as I, _non_?"

He laughs quietly. "Very good, Doctor. I see I didn't underestimate you. I will keep you alive even if it's for no other reason than the information you have in your head. You know who the Hunters are, how to find them, the structure of their organization... how they operate. You're the goose that lays the golden egg. And I'd like to know why they're so anxious after all these years to be rid of you. Do you have any suggestions?"

I smile. He knows as well as I. "It is very simple, Monsieur. They know that you hate the Hunters and wish to be rid of them; you announce that you will grant amnesty to those who confess and give names." I shrug and wave a hand in the air. "They denounce me before I denounce them. _C'est tout_."

"And why haven't you denounced them? I'm curious."

He tests me, I think. Surely it is plain. "I would invite an assassin's bullet - punishment, an example to others who would do the same thing. I tell you that I know who they are, and I am a dead man. I do not tell you, they denounce me, and I am still a dead man; it is only a different finger on the trigger. And I would have your undying contempt."

He nods. "I see you understand your own position. I'm the only hope you have, Doctor. What is the proof?"

Still I find I am reluctant. It is a matter of trust, surely. Do I trust him? He has put himself in a very dangerous position. If whoever denounced me sees that he does nothing, that person will most likely go to someone on the Council - and they will not be so tolerant; they will not bother with proof. And they will have the excuse they are looking for to put Gabrieli in a cell along with me. It seems our paths lead in the same direction. "If I put proof into your hands, there will be no going back. I believe that you are a man of honour; you would not betray me. Yet you cannot save me from a tribunal. If it should fall into the wrong hands..."

"I'm not asking you to place the proof in my hands. I know the risks. You need only one enemy on the Council - and you certainly have that. I know that Shapiro still believes that the Directorship is rightfully his; I also know that several of the Council members are still loyal to him. As it is, without proof of any wrongdoing on your part, it is easy to defend you: I brought you here to ask privately - in deference to your reputation - why someone would denounce you; I've had you followed and found nothing; I have concluded that you must have had patients who told you damning information and that the remaining Hunters can't risk your going to the Council with it, that they are attempting to damage your credibility. I'll make it an official report and it will hold." He shrugs. "So long as no proof surfaces. You're quite right in your assessment. I need the proof destroyed as much as you do."

_Eh, bien._ So be it. "There is a tape. It is most damning."

"Only to yourself?"

I nod. "Oh, yes."

"Who has this tape?"

I swirl the cognac in the glass and stare at it, as if I can find the answer there. "I believe I know. I cannot be certain."

"Is that what you were looking for in Harold Croft's office? That was very professional, but the security camera was active and since you were the only person logged into the building, you were the only candidate."

I laugh quietly and drink some cognac, then look at him. He has left no stone unturned. I was foolish to think that I could do such a thing without his knowledge. You are slipping, Rene. "It was not there." The waiter comes and we give our orders. When he leaves, I regard my companion carefully. His expression has not changed; he still waits. "I believe M. Croft has made many tapes - but not this one."

"Croft."

"Oui, Monsieur. It seems that the little Englishman leads a double life, although I did not know this before last Friday."

"We're both dancing around the issues here, Doctor. Perhaps if I tell you what I know, it will provide encouragement. It was Croft who denounced Eddie Brill to me some two weeks ago. Brill has disappeared. You wouldn't know where he is, would you?"

Ah. This was inevitable, I suppose. I smile and finish the cognac. "That is a difficult question - almost as difficult as the whereabouts of the tape."

He leans back comfortably in his chair. Surely he is considering his options. He fears that if he pushes me, I will say nothing. For all he has discovered, I am an unknown quantity to him. I cannot say how he really sees me - an insubordinate renegade capable of murder, most likely. And it is quite true. God forgive me, but it is true. He trusts me no more than I trust him. And now I am sure that he cannot go to the Council; we are at an impasse, it would seem. Yet we both need to destroy that tape.

"Tell me, Monsieur. Did M. Croft imply that he himself was a Hunter?"

He laughs. "Are you going to tell me he is one?"

"The image is absurd, _non_? May I ask what he told you?"

He looks at me and the smile is gone from his face; he begins to see, I think. "He showed me financial records proving that Brill diverted funds from the supply department while he worked there back in the eighties and early nineties."

"And an investigation of M. Brill's bank records showed that that money was used to buy weapons, _non_?"

"You know about this?"

"I know no such thing, Monsieur. I hear that it was M. Croft himself who bought these weapons. Yet it is only something that I have heard. He is an excellent accountant who would have no difficulty planting misleading financial records."

"Is this confidential information?"

I shake my head. "No. It is hearsay. I do not know this myself."

"And do you believe it?"

"Oui, Monsieur. I do. Most definitely. It fits M. Croft's profile. And this is something I do know about."

"I see. Doctor, I'd like to go somewhere a little noisier before we discuss this further. And I'm sure you could use a cigarette."

The food comes and we eat a little more hurriedly than is my habit but he is right about the cigarette. Afterwards, Gabrieli pays the bill and we leave. Outside, I light a cigarette; it is a relief. I must do something about my smoking; I have a family to consider and I am not young any more. In the car, he uses his cell phone to call his secretary and cancel his afternoon appointments. It will cause eyebrows to rise when the gossip gets out that he and I have spent the day together. The Council will take notice, certainly, and questions will be asked. I do not envy him.

We drive into Paris, to the Marche aux Puces. It is quite busy with people looking for bargains for Christmas. We park the car and go into one of the permanent buildings. I have always liked the Marche; I have a taste for things Japanese and have found some fine old ivories here, small carvings and even the odd, very charming '_netsuke_'. Last year there was a very fine collection of woodblock prints. Needless to say, I am known in certain shops inside. It is a good cover. I am a connoisseur showing things to my friend, the black American who obviously has both taste and money to spare. A good choice.

I lead the way to a particular favourite of mine. Inside, we examine a few items, discuss their artistic merits in English, which the shopkeepers all understand. I ask questions on the provenance of such and such an article: Is it German or English? Early eighteenth century, perhaps? The price seems a little high - there are imperfections..."But Messieurs! This is a flea market, not Sotheby's! You must expect imperfections..." _Bon_. They will remember us. We take our time before thanking the owner for her help and go into the busy corridor where people are resting their feet, sitting on shabby 'antique' chairs with broken backs and torn seat covers. It is one of the more amusing places in Paris. 

We walk down the corridors and through the displays, now and then taking up an item, asking a price. And we talk of other things.

"Tell me what you know of Croft."

I shrug. "I know very little, only what I have heard."

"Don't lie to me, Doctor. It's not in your best interests. What did you find in his office?"

Ah. He is guessing, of course. Nevertheless... "Tapes, photographs, dossiers... It would seem that M. Croft likes to know things, things which others do not want him to know..."

"But not yours."

I shake my head. "No. Not mine. And I sincerely doubt that what was there was anything more than a small sampling of M. Croft's... collection."

"Blackmail, do you think?"

"No, no. He keeps these things to protect himself, most certainly. However... I cannot know for sure."

A painting catches my eye; it is dreadful, but then I am not a fan of the Cubists - and this is only an attempt at a reproduction, very amateurish. I gesture toward it as though discussing it; it is all part of the performance. He shakes his head at it and purses his lips, a man who is not interested in buying. We move on.

"Doctor, I want to know everything you know, everything you don't know and everything you have surmised. I don't care if it takes all day."

***

It is nearly four and already it is getting dark. We have come to a bar, fairly sure we have not been followed. Gabrieli's own men are not a problem, but he is even more paranoid than I, it would seem. And he has reason. We did not go to the car but left the Marche through the back and walked here. On the way, he asked me why I thought the Hunters had not simply climbed onto a roof with a high-powered rifle some fine day and rid themselves of me once and for all. And I could not answer. Perhaps it is obvious and I am too weary of it all to see. Does it matter? I am alive; with a little luck, I shall stay that way.

I would not have imagined that it would turn out as it has. I have told him about Eddie, of course. What more is there to say? I will not betray Joseph; Gabrieli does not need to know about the photographs in Joseph's safe. Nor the tapes of Adam and Horton. I do not know how he knows of Mathilde; he also keeps things to himself. But we spoke of her. He knows of Martine; I am content with that. We spoke of my life now, of Reims, of my garden, my work. He seems satisfied. Now he sits before me, his legs crossed, his face weary, clothed in thought while he holds his coffee cup in both hands. I have a glass of Courvoisier in front of me, untouched.

I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. When I look up and put them back on, he is looking at me. 

"Last week when I asked you about Darius, you told me he was your Confessor. I checked. According to the Watcher records, your first visit to him was only a few days after you were released from the clinic. You knew he was an Immortal; that's not exactly the action of a ruthless Hunter. You felt remorse." I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hand while he speaks. There has been too much remembering. "The note suggested I check with the police. They still have a file on you; they were convinced you'd killed someone but there was no body. They were never really satisfied and kept the file open. I pulled a few strings to get a look at it and it made for some very interesting reading. And I read the bartender's statement." 

I drink some of my beer and shift in my seat. I do not wish to hear this, but he continues. He needs to say this - and perhaps I need to listen. 

He sighs. "You saw yourself for what you had become and you judged yourself unfit to live. And you didn't go back to what you were. That's what I found the most interesting. You managed to do what so many can never do - you changed. You had a child and you didn't abandon her. You settled down, gave a permanent, loving home to a woman who didn't have one; you work your ass off and you do a lot of good. And you've never looked back. And that's why I didn't just turn you over to the Council. You'd find no mercy there and it would be a waste."

I do not know what he wishes me to say. It is certainly not the reaction that I expected.

He drinks some coffee and places the cup on the table. "When I first realized you were what the note said you were, I was ready to take you down right then and there, so help me God. Not so long ago, I wouldn't have looked any farther, but that meeting last week told me something important about you. You care. I wanted you to tell me things..." he spreads his hands then clasps them in front of himself again, "things I thought I had a right to know. And you called me on it. You didn't cave and I had to respect that. I didn't exactly care for the insubordination, but I couldn't fault you for it, either. And that's not the way of a coward. If I know anything about the Hunters, it's that they're cowards. You may have been one, but you are that no more... and I'm not sure you ever really were, right down where it counts. Whatever force drove you to do what you did, you were never like them."

I smile. "This is not the way the Council would see it."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, indeed they would not." He picks up the coffee cup. "You're a wild card, Doctor, I don't deny that. A real loose cannon. I don't suppose I'll ever be able to predict the way you'll roll. There was a time when I didn't believe anyone could reform: bad apples just got rotten, they didn't get shiny again. But you're clean. And you've been clean for a long time. When I asked you last week about Darius, I was watching you; I wanted to know what your reaction would be because I have no idea how you fitted into that. You disappeared for some weeks after that, just melted into thin air." He finishes the coffee and signals the waiter. "Then you reappeared and carried on as if nothing had happened. When I brought it up, you looked shocked. I thought it was because Darius' death had hit you hard. And there was that note denouncing you. I'd been checking you out for some time for other reasons but hadn't found anything to make me suspicious. Then I wondered about it. Grief is one thing but it isn't likely to send a man into hiding for six weeks. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

I nod. "You wish to know why." I wait while the waiter comes. Gabrieli asks for a cognac; I am surprised but then I reconsider. It is a message to me; he will drink with me, man to man, not superior to subordinate. What I tell him will go no farther. I light a cigarette while we wait for the cognac to come. When it does, he gives the waiter twenty euros; the waiter will keep our glasses filled without being asked. 

"When you look at it," he says, "there's no proof one way or the other that you were involved at all - or which side of the fence you were on. But you'd been seeing Darius for a long time by then, some five years. It wasn't likely you were one of the assassins."

"No. I was not one of them." There is no reason not to tell him. I have told him so much today, _apres tout._ What is one more thing? "M. Brill was sent to assassinate me. He missed." It strikes me as amusing for some reason and I laugh quietly.

"Would you like to let me in on the joke, Doctor?"

I drink some of brandy. It is warm with a fine aroma and it reminds me of Adam. I wonder for a moment how he is and it worries me. "It was no joke, Monsieur. Horton wanted me dead; if he could not do it himself, he was satisfied to have Brill do it. And M. Brill had already failed to kill me once; his heart was most definitely in it. I fell off a roof; perhaps it saved my life."

"Then you _were_ at the apartment that night."

I look up. "Monsieur?"

He chuckles. "Do you know that, officially, the police still want to talk to whoever was in the apartment that night? There was a body - but you probably know that. You're a good shot, even when you're running across a roof."

"I do not find this amusing. You must try falling off a roof some time; it is anything but amusing. I still have the sore ribs to prove it."

"A sense of humour under fire - I like that. There's certainly hope for you yet, Doctor."

"And I have no intention of talking to the police; they have no sense of humour at all about murder."

He laughs. "Oh, they most certainly do not. But they know you lived there sometimes; there's a notation in your file to question you about it... It must have slipped their minds." He chuckles and takes a swallow of the cognac.

"You do not expect me to believe that they dropped the matter, surely?"

"I've no idea why they dropped it but they did, even though you left some clothing behind on the bed. But there is also a notation in the file to the effect that you weren't a suspect. You have a guardian angel, it seems."

I am puzzled. Someone in the Watchers pulled strings, certainly. I am not their favourite son but they do look after their own. And someone must have known that I was in trouble. There are so many things that I suspect I shall never know.

"So tell me, Doctor, exactly where were you for six weeks after the massacre?"

I smile at him; it might be harmless enough to tell him, I suppose, but it has been habit for so long to say nothing... "I was safe. I was injured, of course, and I needed to get well. M. Salzer looked after me."

He frowns. "Ah, yes. Don Salzer. That was a dreadful thing. We lost a very good man there. Completely senseless. You know, there are times when I do understand what motivates a Watcher to kill his charge." He shakes his head thoughtfully. "But to turn Hunter... that's something else." He is silent. There is something there, something perhaps he will tell me. "I'm sorry, Doctor. That was a thoughtless remark and I apologize."

I shrug. "No matter. It was a long time ago."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it was. Please finish what you were saying."

"There is not much more to tell. M. Salzer told me one day that there was a message for me. He told me that Adam had been given a note saying that the death order on me had been removed. It was unsigned. I went back to work and all was well."

"Just like that." He shrugs. "That's it. The death order was lifted and you were free to go?"

"Just like that."

"And very soon after that, Adam Pierson himself disappeared."

I nod. "Yes. Well... not 'disappeared' precisely. He went to Africa. We have yet to discuss this in his therapy."

"I see. And if you'd discussed it, you wouldn't tell me." 

I smile; he is learning. I observe him while I drink my brandy. A moment ago, he was considering telling me something, I think. "If you do not mind my asking, Monsieur, you said that you know how it might be that a Watcher would kill his charge. What makes you say this?"

"You don't miss much, do you, Doctor? I suppose that's part of the job."

"It is part of staying alive, Monsieur. It has served me very well."

He snorts and drinks more of the cognac. "Yes, I suppose it has - or I'd be talking to a ghost with a French accent. But it does you credit." His face becomes serious. There is sadness there, and anger also, I think, although he covers it very well. 

"Monsieur? You wish to tell me something?"

He fingers the top of the cognac glass for a moment. He is about to tell me a secret, yes? It is always like this when a patient has decided to tell you something but still hesitates. Perhaps it is too painful, perhaps too old. And this time, I think, too damaging? He puts the glass down and faces me. "You've placed your life in my hands, Doctor. Not that you had much choice about it, I must admit. But you did it. It took courage. Now I'm going to give you something in return. If we each have a knife at the other's throat, it puts us on an even footing. Maybe we'll trust each other a little more." 

****

Chapter 12

He sighs and folds his hands on his stomach. "I was a field operative once too, just as we all were. I was just as idealistic as the rest, perhaps a little more so. I believed in the non-interference policy and my supervisor assigned me to a lady who led a very quiet life, happily married to a widower, raising two teen-aged sons. I'd looked into the files, of course, as we're required to do. She was quite old, over a thousand years, born in the Near East before the Muslim Conquest. And it had been a hard life. It was a long record of horrors - servitude, constant wars, sold into Spain as a slave. She'd been beaten, raped, even murdered many times. She'd become bitter early on, as so many of them did when a longer life just meant more of the same misery with no relief in sight and suicide is impossible. It's particularly hard on the women, I've noticed. She was no beauty, perhaps not even what you'd call pretty; I don't know that it was any better for the beautiful ones. She'd married several times but was never able to produce that all-important male heir, or even children to help with the labour. Or sell into slavery." He shakes his head sadly. "We've forgotten how vicious life was a few centuries back. Maybe if we thought about it occasionally, we'd appreciate what we have."

He pauses and I light a cigarette and wait. Perhaps he thinks he is rambling. "Go on."

He smiles. "Ever the psychiatrist, I see. You can be most amusing, Doctor." He takes a little more of the cognac. His mind is full of memories; very likely he has told no-one of this. He is a man who keeps his thoughts to himself, I think, even those which trouble him. 

"As I said, the lady became bitter. At some point, she stopped trying to be a human being and took to dishing it out instead of taking it. She ran away and joined some bandits who taught her how to survive Mortal life their way. And survive she did. Whatever it took. A lot of Mortals died while she got her revenge against them. There are large gaps in the records. It wasn't easy to keep records back then. Sometimes I think it's a miracle we have records at all from those times. And she was only a woman, of no importance, not even on the short list of interesting Immortals. They lost sight of her until the Renaissance."

He sighs and drains the cognac. "Have you ever wondered what it was really like for them? Ever really thought about it, put yourself in their shoes, tried to imagine it? The ones who survive are living historical records, incredible human treasures. They _know_ because they were _there_. If there is any one single reason to stop the Hunters, it's that. And non-interference? I have my own thoughts on that. We should be protecting them, making sure they survive. I know that's not the official line, and I do believe in non-interference to a point. We shouldn't be directing their lives, influencing how those lives play themselves out. There's a scientific principle that says that the observer changes what is observed, simply by observing it. I think it was Heisenberg who came up with it but I could be wrong." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and chuckles. "He was applying it to particle behaviour in physics, of course, but the principle is sound. But Immortals are also human beings with thoughts and feelings; they are capable of so much but they are often intensely lonely, as I am sure you have observed in your practice, Doctor."

I nod. "Indeed. Go on."

"I don't believe in the Game. I think the Gathering is a myth. It makes no sense and it's an excuse for the more predatory Immortals to take their anger out on others of their kind with impunity. I have to wonder what the original purpose of the myth might have been but it is intensely destructive, and for all that the Hunters have destroyed a great deal, the Game has destroyed so much more. Do you know there was once an Immortal culture, even a government of sorts? The Game destroyed that as well; now it's shattered, fragmented. Look how it has forced them to live. No, it's wrong. If I had my way, I would stop it somehow, stop the belief that they must destroy in order to survive themselves, so that they can stop living in constant fear."

I sigh. It is something I believe myself. I have seen the damage that the Game brings to otherwise healthy minds. It is a terrible waste. And it was not always so. "You do not believe that there is anything, shall we say, 'supernatural' about the affair?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know what to think. The quickenings are real enough; when you witness one, you can't deny that any more. But 'supernatural'? No. Energy release of some kind, very likely. Almost certainly. They're genetic mutations. They may even be the next step in human evolution, who knows? And yet they destroy each other. The Prize is an absurd notion dreamed up by a madman; the idea of being the only Immortal on the planet, deprived of the comfort and society of his own kind - it's quite unthinkable. And for what? To have power over Mortals who don't even know he exists? And that this... _'prize_'..." he says it with considerable disgust, "...should go not to the best mind, the sanest, the wisest but the most vicious, the most calculating, the most brutal... It's the nightmare of a maniac." He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. He is not given to such outbursts, I am quite sure. His feelings on these matters are quite strong. "The young ones see it as some kind of romantic ideal without giving it any thought and they hunt to feel important, just as young herd animals fight the old bulls for dominance. There is no difference. Others are forced to defend themselves to survive and the myth is perpetuated. It is, if anything, quite barbaric, even, if I may use the word, evil, because it destroys all that is good."

I believe I know where this is leading. "And was the lady you were assigned to 'destroyed' by her own kind as part of the Game?"

The waiter arrives, most discreetly, bringing another cognac for my companion and a Courvoisier for me. I make a gesture of thanks to Gabrieli. He nods acceptance.

He drinks some of the cognac before going on. He seems comfortable telling me these things; it means that he trusts me this much, at least. Why would he not? He has a noose about my neck; if I betray him, I betray myself. "No, not another Immortal. A Hunter. I killed him for it. I hunted him down and I strangled him. It doesn't get much more brutal than that and I saw that I was no better than he. I was so filled with rage. I know you understand that, Doctor, and I don't apologize for it. But I've never thought that what I did was right - or even excusable, any more than you did, or you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself. We're not so different. I don't allow myself the luxury of thinking that he deserved to die. He was a fellow Watcher, one of our own, and it would have earned me a tribunal and a bullet in my head just as quickly for that. It still would."

"Yet you feel no remorse, I think."

He looks at me and smiles. "No, I don't. Because I believe they must be stopped. I stopped him from ever doing it again. I don't feel morally superior to him; I just did what I thought I had to do. That lady had become a decent human being for all she'd been through. She had something to tell us, something to teach us and he judged himself superior to her for what she had done in the past; he thought he was better than she was and that was all the excuse he needed to destroy what had taken a thousand years to create. And that burned my ass. It still does."

"I made this mistake also, Monsieur. He was only human."

"But you knew it was wrong and you stopped. He thought it was right, and that's what I couldn't stomach." He shrugs. "Are you going to tell me what's on that tape?"

I snort into my brandy. I am not that easily put at my ease. "No. It is better that you should not have that image burned into your memory also. It is bad enough that it lives in my own, _non_?"

He inclines his head. Yes. "And what are you planning to do about Eddie Brill? He's a considerable threat - to both of us."

Ah, yes, Eddie. What am I to do about that piece of shit? "M. Croft denounced him. You can go to the Council and let them take it from there."

He laughs. "I even have proof."

"Yes, I did think that there would be proof, proof which does not implicate M. Croft himself. He has a great deal of proof of just about anything but he would implicate himself. Did he tell you that he was doing this for the good of the Company?"

"Oh, yes. He made quite sure I saw it that way. I wasn't even suspicious. _Mea culpa_."

I laugh. "You are not the first that M. Croft has fooled. I, too, was a little shocked. It is a way of life with him, of course. If his homosexuality should be made public, there is sufficient prejudice in the Organization that he would never have attained his position. And he could easily lose it. May I ask what proof he offered of M. Brill's misdemeanours?"

"You're very amusing, Doctor. I don't think I would have called an attempt on my life a 'misdemeanour'."

He has avoided the question, I notice. I must remember it. "Two attempts, Monsieur. Neither of which I wish to be made public."

"No, I'm sure you don't. Pity. You'd be a credible witness." 

"But you do not know what else M. Brill knows. You cannot risk his singing like a bird. Who was this Watcher/Hunter you killed, may I ask?"

He shakes his head. "There are some secrets I'll keep to myself. But he had friends. There was an attempt on my life, but I suppose you know that."

"Then perhaps your own reasons for making M. Brill disappear are a little suspect, yes?"

He frowns. "I don't understand."

I shrug. Perhaps I have not explained clearly enough. "Eddie Brill was the only assassin of Mortals to work for Horton, I am quite sure. It was too risky since the murder of Mortals might involve the police. Eddie recruited his own helpers; he kept their identity secret even from Horton. It was one of those 'helpers' that I killed that night. It was his best friend he tells me, one more reason to hate me, as if there were not reason enough already. And it is very likely that your would-be assassin was M. Brill. You were very lucky; he does not often miss, Monsieur. And he becomes very angry when he does."

"I see. And he'd know of my own little indiscretion."

"Oh, yes. Most certainly. And Eddie has no concept of honour. It would please him only too well to take you down. This time, _en effet_, he would not miss."

"You have a strange sense of humour, Doctor, but I can appreciate it. I can see we have a common problem in M. Brill, as you call him."

"Indeed. And a common solution, perhaps."

He swirls the cognac in his hand, watching the motion of the liquid. "Doesn't it strike you as a little insane, Doctor, that two intelligent, cultured men such as ourselves, should be sitting in a working class bar discussing murder?"

I smile. "I am sure it has been done this way for as long as there have been intelligent, cultured men and working class bars, Monsieur."

He laughs and drinks the cognac. "I actually like you, Doctor, although that would have struck me as impossible only a week ago. Remind me never to judge a man before I've discussed murder with him. In a working class bar."

****

It was decided. I asked him what was the 'proof' M. Croft had given him against Eddie, fearing that it might implicate others, perhaps even the innocent, such as Joseph. It would seem, however, that the little Englishman has a sense of discretion. It was a photograph only. Since Eddie never hunted Immortals, preferring to send his own kind to their maker, what that photograph showed I cannot guess and M. Gabrieli has declined to tell me. But Eddie can be condemned by a tribunal for this, most certainly. To prove that he is a Hunter is not necessary. Gabrieli asked me if I was prepared to do it myself and I told him that I was. I will not, however, do anything while he is at the abbey, or indeed in Reims. Eddie himself knows that he is safe from me there; it is likely why he consented to stay, safe from us all.

M. Gabrieli will have a passport made for Eddie, and money. He will give them to me and I will make sure that Eddie has them. I will tell Eddie that there are plane tickets waiting at Charles de Gaulle airport. Eddie will come to Paris - and then we shall see. 

The greater problem, we are agreed, is M. Croft. I cannot think why he was so foolish as to leave such things in his desk; I doubt that he has become complacent, although fear might have made him incautious. He is not a young man. And perhaps indeed, after all this time, he is thinking of blackmail, a nest egg for his retirement. He must be feeling that the walls are closing in and that one day someone will denounce him and he will not be able to stay safe. He wishes, perhaps, to be somewhere very far away when that happens. For which he will need money, particularly if he wishes to live into his old age in any comfort. I cannot imagine how much information he has accumulated after so many years, taking his pictures, recording his tapes, making his notes and compiling his dossiers. 

Gabrieli took me back to Headquarters, where I retrieved my car and drove home. I have had a little supper and fed Mazout. Now I roll a cigarette, a glass of cognac at my side, two of my little vices that I am reluctant to give up. It has been a strange day; I had hardly hoped to be here now, thinking it more likely that I should be in a cell somewhere, awaiting the tribunal I have feared for so long - and so richly deserved. I have been living on borrowed time for a long while now. 

I have called Mlle Thomas. Her father has contacted her; all is well. There was a quickening, but not MacLeod's. I find I am disappointed. Shame, Rene! You should not be wishing for the death of someone who is as much a victim of the Game as so many others. He, too, must be given his chance to live and become worthy of his gift. No, I am pleased to hear that Adam is safe, although she would tell me little; perhaps Joseph was not willing to tell her very much. She is relieved - it was in her voice. It would be a tragedy for her to lose her father after finding him so recently, and for the man she is beginning to realize she loves to be lost with him. A tragedy indeed.

And when I see him, I will most surely ask Adam whose head he removed this time. I am concerned that the quickening may have done some damage but we shall see. He is sleeping, she tells me. This is good news. He seems to have survived his weekend better than I. 

I did not tell her of my meeting with Gabrieli. I must take some time to consider the matter; it is not prudent to speak of him at all. On our way back to Headquarters, he told me what his position is on all this. He cannot make his involvement known; this I understand only too well. He will provide me with whatever information I need to accomplish... certain things, perhaps even make things easier for me when he can. He has admitted to me that he knows that Adam Pierson is Immortal and that he wishes to protect him so far as he is able, that he regards me as Adam's unofficial Watcher. And he has not asked me to report. If it should ever become common knowledge, he cannot be accused of having assigned no-one and the absence of any reports can be explained as being confidential while Adam is in therapy. It is to cover himself, and I do not begrudge him that little bit of self-interest. Whether he also knows that Adam is Methos, I cannot say. Certainly he would not tell me such a thing. M. Gabrieli keeps a great deal to himself, as do I. On this, we understand each other. 

I have called Nikki to tell her not to worry about me, that I am in good health, but that I shall have to stay in Paris. I can still hope to be in Reims for the weekend. That rather depends on Eddie. 

Speaking of Eddie, I have told Mlle Thomas that I have a plan, that I have been able to get hold of a passport and that I shall call her when Eddie has it. I may need her help. Croft is another matter. Always my thoughts come back to him. He is very dangerous; I believe that he can take us all down at once and it is possible that he waits only until he feels safe to do so. And I have made a promise to M. Gabrieli. I will find that tape and destroy it - and he will help me to do it. His men will be told that Croft's request for a guard - for that was the reason they were there - is no longer necessary. It would seem that Eddie made M. Croft very nervous; it must have reminded him of how many enemies there were waiting to take him down, not the least, I am sure, being myself. I smile at the thought. There is something in me which enjoys the idea that I am dangerous. It is perhaps perverse, but it is who I am. I do not apologize.

And for all I may feel more at ease about M. Gabrieli, there are always others who would not be so... forgiving? I must not become complacent and think that I am safe. There are always others; only the guiltless need not worry about there not being others. It is a luxury I cannot afford.

I have done enough for one day. Although it is still early, I shall do no more. I call Martine and talk quietly with her. She wants to see me for my birthday, whenever I am free. She knows that I prefer to be in Reims if I can, but I would like very much to see her as well. She tells me she loves me and I believe it. When I hang up, I am content for the first time in days.

****

Tuesday, November 26.

I have slept late, the first good sleep I have had for a long time. I awaken with Mazout lying on my chest and a fuzzy feeling in my head. I had too much cognac yesterday, perhaps? More likely, I need a cigarette. I push Mazout off my chest and sit up before I remember that I do not need to go to the hospital this morning. It is a relief. You are getting lazy, Rene! I find my glasses and put them on; I am a little shocked when I look at my watch and see that it is past ten. 

I shower, shave, dress, do those little things that make a man feel more human in the morning. I have neglected to get myself anything for breakfast, however, but the coffee is good. I make myself some and sit on the sofa to drink it, rolling the first cigarette of the day. I am pleased with myself for waiting this long. Usually, I light one as soon as I am out of bed - glasses, watch, cigarette... I have made such promises to myself before, however. I doubt that it will last any longer than it ever does. 

The telephone rings; I have been expecting a call. It is Gabrieli's secretary.

"Bonjour, Doctor. I have a message for you. The documents you requested will be brought to you this afternoon by five o'clock."

"Ah, merci, Madame. This is very efficient. Tell M. Gabrieli that I am grateful for his promptness."

"Of course. It was nice to see you yesterday. You don't grace us with a visit very often."

I smile. It is the way I like it. "No, Madame. They keep me very busy."

"Oh, a moment, please, Doctor..." I hear a click as she puts me on hold. A few seconds later, she is back on the line. "M. Gabrieli would like to thank you for your interest in his project and says you have approval to go ahead."

I smile. "Tell him I shall be prompt. Bonjour, Madame."

"Of course. Bonjour."

It would seem I have work to do today. The passport will be here by five. No doubt it will be delivered personally by a security man, all very correct. It is usually done this way. As for the 'project'... M. Croft is in his office, he is telling me. It is safe to look for the tape.

I finish the coffee and pull on my jacket. I am wearing old jeans and my dark pull. I sling my knapsack over my shoulder. I have a few things in it which might be very handy. The weather is cold but it is not wet, at least. I put Mazout outside, put the gun in its holster behind my back and make sure I have turned on my cell phone.

In ten minutes, I am on the Metro. I have at least remembered to go to the bank machine before coming to the station; it would seem that a good night's sleep has cleared my mind quite well. I should try it more often. The Metro is busy today, mostly with people going to do their errands, going to the shops to pick up their fresh groceries. It is crowded also with students. A very normal day that is somehow quite comforting. 

It takes me a while to get to the 16th Arrondissement and I have a longer walk than usual. When I come in sight of M. Croft's apartment building, I find that I am still wary. I go into the same little shop and buy cigarettes. Outside, I light one while observing the street. The Citroen and the Honda are most certainly not there. If anyone else is watching M. Croft, others with their own motives, it would not be possible to say. I have no choice but to take my chances. The greatest difficulty is that I have no key and it is not so easy to break into an apartment in the middle of the day, I think. There will be people there, most certainly. I pull my collar up and walk toward the building, watching for my opportunity.

Farther down the street, a woman with two small children is struggling with a baby carriage and two bags of groceries. I wait to see where she is going. Very likely, she is too busy to notice me but it is always foolish to take chances. I will wait until she passes. In a few moments, I realize that she is going to the same building. _Merde!_

Ah, but wait a moment, Rene... You fool. This is what you have been waiting for. I take a last drag on the cigarette and flick the butt into the gutter. I hurry down the street to where the woman is trying to pull the carriage up the steps to the front door while calling to the two little children. I call to her that I will help her. She looks up, surprised.

_"Oh, merci beaucoup, Monsieur! Merci. Notre appartement est sur le rez de chaussee, numero trois." _[Oh, thank you so much, Monsieur. Thank you. Our apartment is on the ground floor, number three.]__

_"Pas de probleme, Madame." _[No problem, Madame.]

She takes the children while I lift the carriage to the door. The groceries are in the carriage with the baby, who is very young. Sometimes I do not understand how these young women manage. She opens the door and we go in. I manoeuvre the carriage into the apartment on the left. When we are all inside, she offers me coffee but I say that I can see she is very busy and I have business to attend to. And that I will see myself out. She thanks me again and I leave, closing her door behind me.

The building is not new, a very typical Paris apartment house, part of a long continuous row with a slate roof and balconies. The inside has been rebuilt, however. It looks quite expensive but no doubt M. Croft has enough skill with investments to afford to live here - and it is discreet, should he have certain visitors, I suppose. Down the hall, I find the list of tenants beside the mail boxes. M. Croft lives on the top floor, I see. There is an old-fashioned open cage elevator but it is out of order. I climb the stairs. On the fifth floor, the apartment is to the left. Expensive indeed, although I am not surprised at his expensive tastes. He is not ostentatious at least, merely... tasteful. 

I find the door and listen before examining the locks but hear nothing. And the locks? There will be considerable difficulty, I see, although they are not new. They are however, modern locks, and I have brought nothing which might help. But with a little luck...

I take a credit card from my wallet and try it against the locks - two of them. The first slides back with a most satisfactory click. And this does surprise me. I would have expected at least one deadbolt. Perhaps the other? I try it and have no success. _Merde!_ I shall need the concierge.

I go back down the stairs, cursing old buildings without working elevators. I find the concierge in the courtyard, working in the tiny garden. When she sees me, she comes in immediately. She is a very large woman of about fifty wearing a print dress that does not suit her but I am not to judge these things. She seems happy enough as she smiles at me. I have the impression, however, that it would not be a good idea to make her angry. She wipes her hands on her apron as she comes toward me.

"Oui, Monsieur? May I help you?"

I try to look furtive, which is not difficult with what I am wearing. "Oui, Madame. Interpol." I take out my wallet and show her the phoney ID card I keep there. It is an old one, which makes it look quite authentic.

Her eyes narrow as she looks at it. Her expression does not change as she looks at me again; I am in her domain now. She edges me away from the door. Is she afraid I might see something out there? "Is there a problem, Monsieur?"

I look serious but shake my head. "No, no. We merely wish to speak to someone in your building, a M. Harold Croft. Do you know him?"

She nods vigorously, making her jowls shake. "Oh. Yes. The Englishman. He has lived here for many years now. He has never given me a problem, mind you, but I don't like him. Never have. Strange little man. One of 'them'. You know what I mean?" She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Can't stand them."

It would seem that M. Croft has other problems much closer to home. I do not envy him. "I need to get into his apartment, Madame."

She stands there, challenging me. I sense a sweet odour, an unusual one and I cannot quite place it. It seems to be coming from her hands, her apron, which is stained green. "Into his apartment... I may not like the man, Monsieur, but he lives in my building. I can't just open his door to every stranger with an ID, you understand? I have an obligation to my tenants..." she advances on me, away from the doorway - I dare say she outweighs me by ten or twenty kilos, "...even those I don't like."

Ah, I recognize the odour. Madame has a hobby,_ non_? It is time for sterner tactics. "Madame, surely you have noticed that there have been people watching this building for some time now. We notice many things; we record those things." I take a chance, but I am sure that I am right - and I shall have a difficult time keeping a straight face. I reach out and touch the green stain on her apron. She pulls back and the dark look on her face is highly amusing. "There have been reports, Madame. The making of absinthe is a serious crime. But I expect you know that. A word to the wise should be sufficient, if you take my meaning."

Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. It would seem that I have hit the nail quite accurately. She says nothing.

"M. Croft's apartment?" I say.

She nods and without a word leads me to the elevator. Ah. Now I understand why it does not work - one needs a key. As she opens the door to the apartment, I thank her politely and she scurries away. 

I pull on my gloves, then push the door open easily. It makes no noise. I slip inside and close it behind me. I am in a foyer, with polished wood floor and double doors to the room before me, a hallway to the left. I open the doors onto a large living room. There are heavy curtains, all closed, and the room is quite dark. I leave the curtains closed and find the light switch. 

Ah, very nice, M. Croft. Exquisite taste in decor. And well beyond your income from the organization, or was Horton more generous with his hush money than I would have given him credit for? I had thought blackmail beyond your interests, but perhaps not. And your taste in art is abominable. Egon Schiele? And Frida Kahlo? Are we a touch depressed, Monsieur? No matter. 

There are occasional tables with drawers, book shelves, a fine sideboard - many places in which a tape may be hidden. And other things. And other rooms? A bedroom, surely... I go down the hallway. It is not large but it is quite a magnificent apartment, although not up to those in downtown Paris by any means. Nevertheless, it is quite fine and well appointed. I find the bedroom and am surprised that it is quite stark, very aesthetic. And very tidy, of course. Immaculate, in fact. The walls are bare; in the little ensuite, the towels hang at exactly the same length. In the closet, his shoes are lined up, their heels on some imaginary line, exactly parallel to the wall. The shirts are exactly so much apart... obsessive-compulsive to a fine degree. That is certainly not a surprise. It is highly unlikely that such a thing as a tape of a violent murder would be hidden here. M. Croft must be afraid always that his apartment might be - 'tossed', I believe is the word - and his bedroom would be sacrosanct. Nothing damaging, nothing... 'obscene' must ever be found there. You see, I do understand you, Monsieur. I would be a very poor psychiatrist if I did not.

The next room, probably meant as a spare bedroom, is also a library and a study. _Mon Dieu_. This will take me all day! The room past the study is locked. Now this is interesting. Why would you lock a door inside your own home... unless...? The lock is quite simple. I fish in my knapsack and find what I need, something long and thin - a professional lock pick I have had for years. In a few moments, although after much struggle and scratching of metal, I am afraid - I am a little out of practice - the lock snaps open and I put the pick back into my knapsack. I push the handle down and the door swings open.

I turn on the light switch... and I am stunned by what I see. Photographs. Everywhere there are photographs. On the walls, in frames on shelves, on small tables. There is an armchair, a thick rug on the floor. The French doors to the balcony are blocked by thick, red draperies. There is a _chaise longue_ to one side, a deep carpet on the floor. This is... a boudoir, for want of a better word - a very private place, yes? Oh, yes. And the photographs? They are all of one person - Adam Pierson. 

_Sainte Marie Mere de Dieu! Incroyable!_ They have been taken without his knowledge, most certainly. They show him at his desk, walking the hallway at Headquarters, at the Academy, at an office party, where he is standing in the back row, his head down - and M. Croft at his left, I see. This one shows him at our sidewalk table at the cafe on the rue de l'Echelle, taken some years ago and with a telephoto lens if I am not mistaken. And I have been carefully edited from the photograph, I see. How long have you been stalking your quarry, M. Croft? How long indeed?

To my left, a photograph on the wall... it is a poster, yes? Very large. M. Croft is quite the photographer, but then he has had much practice, I think. It was taken by someone in a car - a surveillance photograph? Adam walks across the street, his old coat wrapped about him as is his habit, his head down, striding across the roadway. It reminds me of one I saw some years ago of James Dean - 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams', I think? Yes. Below this is a low table with some things on it. I go to it. I have heard of such things, but I have not seen it until today... A small photograph in a frame intrigues me; I have seen it somewhere... I pick it up. In it, Adam smiles into the camera; he is a little self-conscious, looking quite... boyish? Ah, I remember! It has been cut from another photograph - one of M. Salzer and himself. I take it out of the frame. On the back, in Adam's almost unreadable scrawl, there is a phrase: 'Your friend, Adam.' 

Surely this was meant for M. Salzer. I remember that I was surprised that Adam had allowed himself to be photographed - a rare thing indeed and a measure of his friendship for M. Salzer. How is it that M. Croft has this? It belonged to M. Salzer; I saw it in his shop once or twice when I went there for some books in English. Other things on this table intrigue me. A little album with plastic pockets inside for photographs holds notes, folded memos, scraps of paper - all have Adam's handwriting. Some memos are addressed simply to 'Croft', requesting funding for books and travel for Adam's work. Some of these have been stolen from Adam's desk, surely, even his waste basket, all carefully preserved. I shake my head. M. Croft imagines a 'relationship', _non_? _Mais, bien sur; c'est _


	3. Part 3

Chapter 13

My back is toward the door; nevertheless, there is no mistaking M. Croft's accent. I am getting too old for this.

I must remember that he is afraid of me. "Unless you have a silencer," I say quietly, "and if you wish to continue living in this beautiful apartment, I would not recommend it." And if the beating of my heart does not slow very soon, _mon ami,_ I shall die of a heart attack and save you the trouble. 

I stand very still. He is not an impetuous man but I have humiliated him deeply by being here; I have violated this sacred space and I will pay for that. I must be very, very careful... "And I do not think that you will want the police to see this."

"You arrogant bastard! I shall have done with you once and for all."

His voice is tremulous with fury and sets my nerves on fire. I dare not move; I hardly dare to breathe. He is very close to the edge; a wrong word from me and he will do it. It is best to say nothing.

"I remember you used to carry a gun at your back. Get it." 

"May I turn around?"

"I'll tell you when you can turn around! The gun."

I raise my left hand slowly and put the right under my jacket. He will watch every little motion. I slide the gun out of its holster and take the butt with my fingers. "I remove it now," I say.

"Slowly." The word is sharp.

I hold my hand at arm's length, with the gun still between my fingers.

"Lay it on the floor and move away." His voice is lower now, in control. I am unsure what that might mean and that alarms me even further.

I bend down slowly and lay the gun on the floor. Then I stand again, just as slowly, and move to my left. I begin to turn around.

"Don't turn around, I said!"

My heart gives a little extra thump and I freeze where I am. I must let him take the lead - and wait. He is physically timid; my size alone intimidates him. If he feels some control...

"And now..." he hisses at me, "... now you can put that diary back where you found it."

_Ah, non!_ He saw me read it. I take the book out of my pocket and put it back in the drawer. I will most certainly pay for this, God help me.

"How dare you come here, you murdering son of a bitch! This is aimed at your head. You do one thing wrong and you are dead. Do you understand me? Your kind disgust me!"

And now perhaps he is wondering what the hell to do with me. He cannot kill me here yet he cannot trust me. And there is nothing I can say that would set him at ease. And why should he trust me? He knows that I can be a violent man when I am pushed; after all, he has proof enough of that. For all he knows, I came here to kill him. I must wait. Just wait. My heart still pounds and my breathing is deep and fast. If he falters... or if I do...

"You have become a very nasty problem for me, Doctor, a real liability. I had hoped to be rid of you easily but you've forced my hand. I'm sorry to make that lovely little girl of yours an orphan but she deserves much better than you, poor child."

And now he makes me angry! _Calme-toi,_ Rene! Oh, _mon Dieu... _if he gives me the chance...

"And that slut of a mistress of yours... You have the habits of a pig." He spits out the words. I make no secret of Martine but she is no concern of his; he tries to make me even angrier - and he is succeeding. "You must think me a fool," he says. "I do know what you were looking for; do you really think I would keep such a piece of shit here?"

He moves behind me toward the gun. I catch sight of him in the glass of a photograph and it disturbs me. There is a determined hatred on his face. It is not what I had expected... 

"Put your hands behind your head and move to the door. Now!" I do as I am told, clasping my fingers together behind my head. I would not have thought that he would have the presence of mind... Have I misjudged you, _mon ami_? If I have...

Behind me, he picks up the gun. "I think it would be fitting if you were shot with your own weapon, don't you? Go to the front door. I'm right behind you."

The beating of my heart is like a thunder in my ears and I am nauseous. I was quite wrong about M. Croft, it would seem. He appears to know precisely what he will do with me. And he is remarkably confident; has he done this before? 

At the front door, I stop. Perhaps he will make a mistake. But no... "Put your hands down and open the door. Then walk ahead of me to the stairs. Slowly."

Again, I do as I am told. I am unable to get a look at him. As I walk toward the stairs, I hear the door close. I begin to descend the stairs; he is close behind me now.

"Keep your eyes straight ahead, Doctor. The gun is in my pocket and I do know how to use it."

He is very close behind me as I go down, floor after floor. And I notice that his voice is deeper, no longer nasal. Was that part of his mask, part of the role he has played for so long? For it was surely that, the role of the timid homosexual, so put upon by everyone, so pathetic... 

"The concierge was good enough to tell me that someone from Interpol was in my apartment waiting for me." He has controlled his anger, I see. He seems even to be enjoying my predicament. I concentrate on biding my time... "You pissed her off. And yes, I know all about her absinthe. She buries the bottles in that little garden plot. It gives her an income; I have never seen any reason to begrudge her that. I've even found her the occasional customer... and she's been kind enough to keep me informed of anything she thinks might be of interest to me. And I'm not so stupid as to think she likes me but it's a business arrangement. If we dealt only with the people we liked, nothing would ever be accomplished, And it seems that she likes you even less." He chuckles but it is genuine amusement, not nervousness. Indeed, I have misjudged him - most seriously. "There was a time when you would never have made such a mistake, Doctor. Break and enter, impersonation of an Interpol detective... A little rash, don't you think?"

His voice is cold, measured. He is in control and I know this only too well. At the very least, he could have me arrested; the concierge would be only too happy to testify against me. 

"When we're at the bottom of the stairs, just go through the front door, would you? There's a good lad."

Surely Gabrieli has not set me up; it is not in his interests at all. No, no. I am certain of this. But what has happened? He would have warned me... _Oh, mon Dieu!_ I have forgotten to charge my cell phone! _Idiote, Rene!_ But he will be attempting to aid me, _non_? I must hope this. Yes. He would do this. Behind me, M. Croft still talks to me. I have not heard what he has been saying, too absorbed in my own nervousness. I must listen; there might be something... 

"You were in my office on Sunday, Doctor. I know what you found and I want it back - all of it. What have you done with it?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"You used to be a much better liar, too."

At the bottom of the stairs, I see the concierge peering at us around the window of her little booth. The door to the garden is closed, of course. When I look toward her, she pulls her head back. Yes, Rene, that was an error. You might not have the chance to make very many more. He is directly behind me; any closer, and I would feel the gun in my back. 

"Go straight through the door."

Outside, there are few people on the street. I look for the blue Citroen or the black Honda but I see nothing. If they are there, they are well hidden. I never thought that I should be anxious to see those two. Croft stays behind me. 

"Go to the left. My car is that grey Renault. Get into the driver's seat."

I see the car. It is only a little way down the street. When I get there, I go straight to the driver's side and get in. He stays behind me all the way and lets himself into the back seat. When the doors are closed, he throws the keys onto the seat beside me. 

"Start the engine and pull away," he tells me. "At least you have the sense to keep your mouth shut."

As I pull into the street, I look in the mirror. Another car, about fifty metres behind, pulls out with me but it turns a corner at the next light and my disappointment is like a knife in my belly. I shall continue to hope. I cannot think that Gabrieli has abandoned me...

"Where shall I go?" I ask.

"Take the A4 toward Coulommiers. And don't speed. We don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

He has seated himself so that I cannot see him in the mirror. He does not wish me to see his face, read his emotions, perhaps? Yet I think it is deeper than that - he cherishes his anonymity. Or, it can be even simpler - I am filth in his eyes, c'est tout. The man behind me, the man with the loaded gun aimed at my back, the little man with the ordinary face and the shy manner is not what he appears to be, not what everyone, including myself, thought him to be. I believed I knew him, but I have never really given him a second thought. Nor, it would seem, has anyone else. It is the perfect disguise. He is right there, yet no-one sees him. And those who do see behind the mask? I wonder how many are still with us. And if I cannot think of something, I could be joining them very soon. I watch the traffic in the mirror...

"You should be in a cell awaiting your execution. That coward Gabrieli has let you slip through his fingers. But you won't slip through mine."

"Then it was you..."

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! I would have been there and I would have enjoyed seeing Gabrieli pull that trigger and you getting what you deserve after all these years."

I feel quite nauseous. The traffic is bad, which gives me the excuse to drive slowly. At the next light, I watch the cars behind me - a red Renault, something blue and another grey car. A fourth pulls in behind them. I recognize none of them. When the light changes, I do not notice until the car behind me sounds his horn and I drive forward...

My hands are sweating. "I wish to smoke."

"All right. Why not? A condemned man has that much right." I take the packet out of my shirt pocket and light one. Perhaps it will calm my nerves. "You have some very filthy habits, Doctor. Very filthy indeed." He makes a noise of disgust. "God knows what Adam sees in you. Oh, I know you're not screwing him. I've watched you for enough years to know that men don't appeal to you at all. Adam must love you deeply to be rejected constantly and still see you. I will give him the love and comfort he deserves. You corrupted him with your whoring and your boozing. It's you who made him unhappy."

I am barely listening. I have just noticed that the fourth car is still with me - staying back a little, but there. A little hope stirs in my brain...

"I have waited so patiently. He's Immortal. But I expect you know that. He is magnificent! He faced James down - that's when I knew for sure. This... 'therapy'! He needs love, not therapy. Once you're out of the way, he'll be free..."

It is as I thought. He may despise me for what I am but he hates me even more for my friendship with Adam. And he is about to remedy that.

"And Dawson. I thought he was a decent man until he shot James that night. He's no friend to Adam."

It is ridiculous, of course, but I must say nothing. He believes his own lies; to challenge him would be quite foolish. I glance in the mirror - the fourth car, a pale blue one, is still there, although it has dropped back a little. There is a long way to go, howevever, an hour at least if we are going to Coulommiers in heavy traffic. I try to think what is there. It is countryside, woods, a small lake. I do not know it well.

He has noticed what I am doing. "I wouldn't bother hoping you'll see that blue Citroen Gabrieli's man drives, Doctor. He's not there. I told Internal Affairs I'd heard that Eddie Brill was at the Gare de l'Est. He's still in Reims, of course, but they'll be checking on that. Gabrieli has very little manpower; I must suggest a few names to him, men who would be most... loyal. That's how it's done, you see. You never tell them how it should be, you merely... suggest. And eventually, it's all yours. And they never even notice."

When he mentions Reims, I listen more closely. I like this not at all.

"Hiding Eddie in the Abbey was brilliant but I knew you'd come up with something. You're very resourceful, but then you wouldn't still be alive if you weren't. Eddie was trying to squeeze me, demanding hush money. I showed him what he can do with his fucking threats. He came straight to you; I knew he would. I bet he told you he had that tape. A careful hint here, a suggestion there... Eddie is very suggestible, a sign of a weak mind." He laughs to himself. "You're much harder to manipulate, Doctor. You have kept your mouth shut, played a clean game for years now. I've been watching. I would have left you alone if not for Adam. This way, I am rid of both of you."

The traffic is easing but I do not speed up. I need time.

"I thought of sending Eddie to kill you but that idiot has already failed me on that. He was always very good at what he did, took orders without question. He even enjoyed his work but lately he's become sloppy, a considerable liability. And he'd still be a problem. Yes, he served me well over the years. He's only a legend in his own mind, of course, and I'm happy to let him believe it. They all become liabilities in the end, even James. He outlived his usefulness when he concocted that ridiculous charade to trap Duncan MacLeod. Do you have any idea how expensive facial reconstructive surgery is? And done illegally? It was outrageous! He did that by himself; if I'd known what he wanted all that money for, I would never have allowed it to happen. MacLeod took care of him for me, though, as I suspected he would. James was obsessed with killing him for some reason, almost as obsessed as he was with his hatred of Immortals. Obsession clouds the judgement, don't you find? MacLeod is completely predictable - and quite vicious. I just waited for the inevitable." He chuckles again. 

"Yet you do not hate Immortals, I think," I say. He can only tell me to keep quiet, after all.

"I really don't give a damn one way or the other. They can all go to hell. There's no real difference under the skin; you all hate and you all disgust me. Do you play chess, Doctor?"

"Yes."

"Fine game. Doesn't matter whether you choose black or white; it's all the same. The object is not even to win. It's all about strategy, about cutting down your enemy one by one and being the last one standing."

"And you have enemies."

"Keep your psychiatric opinions to yourself, Doctor. If I want them I'll ask for them."

I light another cigarette; my hand is shaking a little. The driving is helping me to concentrate on something other than my shrieking nerves. The blue car is still there, only a little farther back now. But then, we have not gone very far, not even to the eastern outskirts of Paris. 

"But yes, I have enemies. Every gay man has enemies. It's one more excuse to hate." And you hate everyone, I think, _mon ami_, especially me. "I could be running the European Region by now; I should be. They always passed me over. Do you have any fucking idea how that feels, being passed over again and again, watching them screw up, seeing them make a hell of a mess of it, knowing you could have done it better? There was never any reason given; why should they give reasons? And then I found that there were other ways to run things, other ways of making things happen. And they are so sure that they are in control! They can't see the whole board; you can't win unless you see the whole board." He pauses abruptly. "What are you looking at?"

I feel the muzzle of the gun at the back of my neck and my heart almost stops. He turns in his seat, pressing the gun against my neck. "Don't try anything!" In the mirror, I see him glance through the rear window. The blue car is still there; as Croft looks out, it changes lanes and slows. Perhaps I was wrong about it. I must think of something. And soon. My heart is pounding and I am very nearly sick. He turns back in the seat and takes the gun away from my neck. I had not realized that I was holding my breath.

"Pull over to the curb and stop."

I do it. It is a relief to sit and breathe for a moment. My heart is loud in my ears. The blue car is no longer in sight. Has it turned a corner? Is it waiting to see what I will do? Or perhaps only it was my imagination and the car is gone. _Mon Dieu,_ I hope not!

"We'll wait here for a few minutes. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I pick up my cigarette from the ashtray and smoke while I try to think. 

"You're remarkably controlled, Doctor. They're usually shitting themselves by now. But you're not a coward, are you? I've always known that about you. James could never understand that but then James was a very shallow man and you have never been that. Perhaps that's what Adam sees in you. He would never associate with a coward. Do you know who he is? Do you? Has he told you yet?" He giggles with pleasure. Why should he not tell me? It is quite possible I will not live out the day; he intends, in fact, that I should not. 

I shake my head, "No."

He leans toward my head so that I can hear him clearly and he whispers, "_He is Methos!_" Then he sits back and chuckles. "It's a shock, no? I've known it for quite some time." He is excited by this little revelation; we are at the core of his fantasy here. God forbid he should that think I am ridiculing him.

"Methos is a legend," I say. "They say he does not exist."

"That's what he wants them to think! He tells no-one, but I know. He is different from all the rest; if you're looking for it, you can see it. He pretends to be Adam Pierson, timid, self-effacing. That's where I learned it, you see, by studying Methos, the Master himself! If you're self-effacing, they pay no attention to you. That's how he stays safe. And I protect him. Shapiro wanted to launch an investigation into his background after the Kalas affair. He wanted to bring Adam before a tribunal for interference when he had Kalas arrested and testified against him. The fool! It was plain for anyone who wanted to see. Kalas sought him out but even he dared not face Methos himself. That's when I knew. Oh, yes. When Adam faced down James, I knew he was Immortal. You could see it in his bearing, his control. He was fearless. And I suspected that he was an Old One; only the Old Ones have that aura about them, that mystique. Oh, yes. You must feel it, Doctor; you spend a lot of time with him. Did you never wonder?"

"Yes. I wondered."

"Of course you did! Even you felt it. And you have been around Immortals many years. Yet you were fooled! But when Kalas came after him and then left him alone, I knew. Oh, yes, I knew. It was a revelation but it was so plain. And then I heard what Shapiro was planning. It was absurd! I couldn't have that. I called him in and laid it out for him. He was to call it off, let it be known that Adam was not under suspicion. He told me that he thought Adam had been stalked by Kalas, that Kalas had threatened him and that Adam had revealed information on the Watchers - the actions of a coward! He told me that Adam had been seen walking with MacLeod that day. Perhaps he was; when you know he's an Immortal, these things make sense. But Adam is no coward! Shapiro wanted to put Adam on trial and put a bullet in his head for it. And if that happened, they would all know what he was - and they would take his head! No, no. I could never allow that. Shapiro hates Adam, always has. I had to do a little convincing. And let's just say he owed me a favour or two." 

His voice becomes quiet; he relives a memory, yes? As for me, I am desperate for some sign that I am being followed, something to tell me that I am not alone... And yet I am fascinated by what he tells me. He believes sincerely that I shall not live out the day or he would not tell me these things; I wish that I could see beyond the next five minutes myself.

"Nothing was said after the Galati affair. Shapiro was helpless but there were murmurs - oh, yes. There were those who wanted to know why a Watcher would break ranks and defend an Immortal, defend another Watcher accused of interference. It was brilliant and he played it magnificently. They dismissed him as a fool after that and left him alone. Yes, I took my cue from the Master. And when they wanted to launch an investigation, I told them that Adam was just an idealistic scholar who had made an error in judgement, he was young and foolish and had learned his lesson. There were certain members of the Council who... owed me. They saw it my way, of course. Oh, yes, he's quite magnificent."

The tirade stops as Croft puts the gun back to my neck and I shiver. His little speech has made him bold, I think. "Don't think I'm distracted, Doctor. It's been long enough; I think we can go now, if you don't mind."

I stub out the cigarette, put the car in gear and pull back into the traffic. The blue car is nowhere in sight. An emptiness settles into my chest. There is not much time.

"Shapiro would never have been Regional Director without my help. He was unsuited for the position; it is no job for a coward. But they deserved him. And long before that, he wanted to be taken off Darius and put on the Kurgan because he thought the Gathering was coming and he wanted to be there, the man in the front row, the man everyone would remember as the Watcher who was there at the end. And I arranged it. _Me!_ I pulled in markers, made recommendations, suggestions... And this was my thanks? That he would go after Adam? I made sure he understood who he owed his career to and who could pull him down. Ungrateful bastard!" 

As his anger rises, my nerves go into high gear. He is very volatile; it would take so little, so very little... I light another cigarette, my hand very unsteady, and pray to God that Gabrieli did not forget me. If I survive this, I am going to get very drunk.

"He saw it my way. The matter was never brought up again." He laughs and I breathe again. 

His talkativeness is not nerves. He tells no-one of the things which are most important to him, his love for Adam, his belief that Adam is Methos - I must remember that he does not _know_, only that he _believes_ his delusion that he is in control... Or perhaps it is not a delusion. I cannot think clearly. Certainly he brags to me. But I have been so wrong about him. I must not fall into my own habit of believing him to be harmless or merely a frustrated lover.

The traffic is thin as we are leaving Paris. The highway will be much more open. If anyone is trying to follow me, it will be very difficult there. 

"Take the exit to Coulommiers. You know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Good. And don't forget that I have a gun." He puts it back to my neck briefly as a reminder. "Don't ever forget that."

A cold shiver goes down my spine at his tone, cold and hard. Just as Adam's tone was cold and hard the day I told him that Horton had held a gun to my head. M. Croft knows of that day... Perhaps if I keep him talking... 

"I saw the tape of Eddie's attempt to kill me in Horton's office," I say.

"Yes, I showed him that tape. He thought it was funny - until I told him I could take both of you down with it and that was what I intended to do." He laughs again. "And I would have. But that tape of your last kill... That was what gave me the whole idea, you know. It was so... convenient. I didn't need to be afraid of you ever again although you were clearly on the edge and might have turned on us all in a heartbeat. James gave it to me for safekeeping since it was my idea to send you after that Viking. He said he needed rid of you but couldn't see how to do it without an investigation which might unearth the Hunters. And then that idiot didn't use it! He liked the idea of controlling you, the damned fool! You should have been dead a long time ago, Doctor, you really should. I was very angry. I told him he worked for me, not the other way around. If he wanted to keep funding his Hunters, he'd best not forget it. I was going to turn it over to the Council myself - anonymously, of course. No-one could prove I had anything to do with the Hunters; I was merely an innocent party who had been used... I would have been very convincing and I was quite willing to sacrifice them all at that point. But Adam came to see me. He had a favour to ask, he said. And how could I deny him anything?"

His voice softens. It is most strange - when he speaks of Adam, it is always with tenderness. His love for Adam appears to be quite genuine. 

"He asked me if I could arrange for James to... 'disappear' is not quite the word, no, not that... to be transferred, shall we say. He knew I could pull the right strings. He was afraid for you, you see, said you were not quite right in your mind. I was very touched. I knew then that he was in love with you. And that he didn't know what you were. He told me all about Eddie trying to kill you, said he was afraid for you, although of course I knew. I told him I would do what I could. James was becoming a liability, far too rash; it would be good to have him cooling off in some far corner. And so I arranged it. Adam brought me a bottle of my favourite liqueur as thanks. He has always treated me with every consideration."

He explains so much of what has always puzzled me. I cannot dismiss him as a madman; what he is telling me cannot be delusion. He has fooled us all, it would seem. And Adam? Surely he is aware of something... We must discuss this... Ah, but then, it is I who will not be there for his next session...

"I know why he hasn't told you that he is Methos, you know - he doesn't really trust you. Have you told him what you were? No, I don't suppose you'd breathe a word about that. Not exactly conducive to his therapy, is it? He would kill you in a heartbeat if he ever found out. I considered telling him more than once. But it would have hurt him and I couldn't do that to him. He's been hurt enough; I can't imagine the pain he must bear, poor soul. This is much the best way. No, no. You will simply disappear; later it will come out and I shall be there for him." 

"What proof did you show Gabrieli when you told him about Eddie?"

"That doesn't concern you. The exit is coming up. Don't miss it."

"Your attention to detail is quite remarkable."

"Is that flattery, Doctor? I'm really going to enjoy blowing your brains out."

I curse silently. He rambles yet he is not distracted. He merely thinks aloud, _non_? His mind is much more organized than it appears. And he is most certainly not insane. It would be easy to dismiss him as quite mad, and yet he is not. And perhaps that is what frightens me the most.

"How does it feel to dance with Death, Doctor? How does it feel to sit in the same room with that magificent creature and hear his thoughts? Does it frighten you to know he'd slit your throat as easily as look at you if he thougtht you were a Hunter?" He laughs. "I've wondered about that, wondered if it kept you awake at night. It should. Do you sleep well? Or do you keep a gun under your pillow and a sword under your bed?"

"Sometimes I have nightmares."

"And so you should. You should have gone down with Darius. I don't know if it was courage or just the blind luck of fools and idiots, but there you were, still breathing. I was going to send Eddie back to get it right, of course, something quick and easy. I wasn't concerned with causing you any pain; I see no reason to make a man suffer. I have never made them suffer. And it will be quick now, I promise you; you may rest easy on that. I am not a vindictive man, Doctor, merely a practical one."

"And why did you not simply climb to a rooftop with a high-powered rifle? It is something which has been puzzling me."

"No doubt it has. Sometimes I have wondered about it myself. Eddie wanted to. He really does have a thing for seeing you dead, you know. He's going to be disappointed. In case you're wondering, I assumed Adam was hiding you. It's what he would do for the man he loved, after all. It wasn't hard to figure that out. I took pity on him and sent him a note to say that I could assure him that you were safe. And I called off the dogs. Did you know you owed Adam your life?"

"No. I did not know this."

"And that lovely child of yours. Do you think I took no thought for her? An innocent." He sighs in disgust. "You're a good father, for all you're scum as a human being. But it has gone too far, I'm afraid. Eddie talked about me, didn't he? Of course he did. He wouldn't have told you very much, but you have a suspicious nature; you'd get around to investigating me eventually. Then I saw the surveillance tape from my office. You didn't waste a minute. I knew you'd go to my home. I gave you time to get there and then I told them at the office that I was ill. When the concierge told me that a tall, bearded man with glasses had said he was from Interpol and was in my apartment, I was quite prepared. But you have made me very angry, Doctor. Very angry. You're a very intelligent man; I know you can see why I can't let you live. And your daughter will be taken care of. Adam will very likely want to raise her and there's your pension and very generous death benefits for those who die on Company time. I can arrange that for you. It's my job."

"Am I to find this comforting?"

He laughs. "Just reminding you that you don't have much time left. The exit is coming up on your right. It's only justice, Doctor. I haven't heard you deny that you deserve it." But not from your hand, _mon ami_; you are as guilty as I. 

I make the turn. My hopes are getting thinner as we get closer. This is not the way I had thought to leave this world... and I have not left it yet, _mon ami_. I am, as you say, a resourceful man...

He has fallen silent. Perhaps he considers how he will do this. 

"You are in a difficult position, Monsieur," I say. "I can simply pull to the side of the road and refuse to go farther."

"You could. But you're unarmed. I'd leave you here and let you make your own way back. And the police would be at your door by the time you got home - break and enter, impersonating an officer from Interpol, theft, perhaps even blackmail... I'm sure I can think of a few other things between now and then. You really shouldn't have upset the concierge and you shouldn't have burgled my office. That would keep you quiet while they checked you out and who knows what else they'd find? They still have a file on you and I believe they still want to talk to you about a little matter of a murder in 1993. Meanwhile, I have no qualms about showing that tape to anyone who might be interested in doing me a favour. And I think it's time Adam knew what you were. How long do you suppose you would have then, Doctor? You see, the guilty are in no position to bargain, are they? There would be no pension then, only disgrace. And you would be just as dead."

He leaves me no choice, it would seem. I light a cigarette. Am I so well trapped? 

"Take the turn-off to Bois-La-Ville, the other side of the airport. I'm sure you know it."

Ah, yes, I know it. There is nothing there, a small village, _c'est tout_. No-one wishes to live beside an airport. Fields, woods. It is ideal for what he will do.

It is not far. I see the sign ahead and my stomach tightens. I slow to make the turn, watching always in the mirror for any sign of help. There is nothing. I make the turn with my heart pounding. The village is perhaps a kilometre ahead, no more. 

"There's a lane up ahead to the right. Take it. And after that, I won't think twice about shooting you where you sit, so don't get cute."

I see the lane and make the turn. It leads between fields toward a wood. At the edge of the wood, he tells me to pull to the edge of the lane and stop. There are no tire marks here. This lane is used by farmers to take their tractors to the fields and there are no farmers on their tractors during the last week of November. It would seem that I have no more time.

"Give me the keys," he says when I have stopped the engine. I hand them over the seat and he takes them from me.

He opens his door and gets out. I open mine. He has my own gun aimed still at my head. He has screwed a silencer into the barrel. I get out and close the door. He gestures toward a footpath which leads into the trees.

"After you, Doctor. Just think of it this way: your demise is inevitable; this way, your daughter is looked after and she needn't know that her father is a murderer."

I say nothing. I am surprised at my own resignation but I am not dead yet. There is a wind and I am quite cold. I pull my jacket about me and walk ahead of him. 

"You can smoke if you like," he says over my shoulder.

I shrug and shake my head. I may need my hands free. And just this once, I find I do not want to smoke.

"Just follow the footpath," he says. He sounds most cheerful. And why should he not? He is about to rid himself of one of his oldest problems. I am sure he has something equally amusing planned for Eddie. We may be lying beside each other for eternity - and I do not find that at all amusing. 

Once into the trees, there is not so much wind. There are some pines mixed with the bare oaks and the footpath leads through them. Once past them, no-one will see us from the road. There is a little early snow on the ground here and no footprints have broken it. I doubt that these woods are much disturbed during the winter. There are worse places to die, I suppose. Part of my mind tries to compose itself and the other part screams at me. I look about me, trying to see what I might do to save myself. He stays well behind me, out of my reach. I could run, I am sure, but he would make good his threat to have me arrested and that would be the end of it. How did it come to this?

"Just through those trees up ahead, Doctor."

I walk toward the trees. The quietness of the place calms me, draws me even as my conscious mind tries desperately to think of a way out. I hear him behind me, his feet crushing the twigs and patches of ice on the ground. I pass the trees and turn. He gestures to me to walk ahead still but I shake my head.

"No. I am not afraid of you and I will go no farther." And I find that it is the truth. Indeed, I am not afraid of him.

He shrugs and comes to within a metre or so of me, still just a little out of my reach. "Have it your way. On your knees."

I shake my head again. "No. I go to my knees only before God. You may kill me but you will not humiliate me." Somewhere I hear a raven and look up. The sky is quite clear.

He smiles. "Then I guess it's time. Turn around, unless you want it in the face."

"No. Not that." And I turn my back to him.

"I understand you have religious sensibilities, Doctor. I'll give you time to say your prayers if you feel inclined. I wish I could say I hold no enmity toward you but we both know it would be a lie. Still, I'll make sure your child wants for nothing. The sins of the father shouldn't be visited upon the children."

Mathilde. Forgive me.

"Any last requests?"

"Where is the tape?"

He laughs. "Sorry, Doctor. I still can't quite bring myself to tell you that. It's safe. It's with that chronicle I'm sure Eddie told you about. One day, Adam will be told where to find his chronicle, a gift from me. And when he does... he won't forgive you, you know. But he won't grieve for you either. And while we're at it, where are the things you stole from me?"

I smile to myself. "I think not, Monsieur." 

"Let me guess. You gave them to Mr. Dawson's pretty daughter. No matter. Good-bye, Doctor."

I hear the slide chamber the round and my heart races. _No! I am not ready...!_

****

Chapter 14

The shot cracks the silence.

I scream involuntarily and throw myself to the side. _I am still alive!_

He is looking behind him. I lunge for his legs and bring him down. The gun falls to the snow but his hand finds a stone. He slams it down hard on my head. The pain shoots through my skull and I cry out. He strikes me again before I can roll away. Another shot strikes the ground beside us...

I am enraged! I grab for his legs again, cursing...

_"Fucking bastard!"_

He screams in terror but it only enrages me further. I smash a fist into his belly and he shrieks. He still clutches the stone but I seize his wrist and twist it. A bone snaps and he screams again, struggling beneath me. I clutch his hair and bang his head into the ground. He struggles but I ram my knee into his chest. The gun is beside me on a patch of snow where it fell. I snatch it up, put the muzzle against his temple...

_"Go to hell!"_

...and pull the trigger.

_"Doctor!"_

He does not move beneath me. All is silent now. What have I done?

My breathing is shallow and rapid and my heart is a hammer in my chest. I look at the gun in my hand - I have killed a man. Again. I hear the raven and look up. It sits in the trees above me, shrieking its laughter...

_Pardonnez-moi, Mon Dieu..._

"Doctor?"

_"Quoi...?"_

I sit on the gound, the body beside me. She touches my shoulder.

_"Je l'ai tue... le bon Dieu me pardonne. Je n'ai pas eu la choix, tu sais."_

"Doctor?"

I turn my head. I cannot see. My glasses...

_"Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. J'ai perdu mes lunettes..."_

She takes the gun from me. Her touch is gentle and I am ashamed.

"Doctor? Are you all right? Let me have a look at that head. God, there's a lot of blood!"

She kneels beside me and presses something into my hand. My glasses. They are not broken but I do not put them on. The pain in my head is terrible and I touch my temple. When I take my hand away it is covered in blood.

_"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passe...?"_

"You're speaking French, Doctor. Come on; let me look at this."

"Miss Thomas... No. No, I am not all right. "

"Here. Let me look at that." She touches my head and I wince. "There's too much blood to see for sure; it looks quite bad. Just a moment..."

She picks up some snow and washes the side of my face and head with it. The coldness eases the pain but I am dizzy.

"Oh, Lord. Still bleeding quite a lot. You need a doctor to look at it."

"The head always bleeds very much. And I do not want stitches."

She puts fresh snow to my head and continues to clean it. My mind is confused...

"I couldn't get close enough any sooner. I'm sorry."

He lies beside me, still warm...so short a time ago living, breathing - and now he lies there, dead by my hand. I do not understand why I am still alive. He could not have missed. Does it never end? And this too, now, is on my conscience. So much... And when my daughter asks me what I have done with my life, what do I tell her? Perhaps I should have let him kill me...

Her hand shakes my shoulder. "Doctor... stay with me here."

"I think I shall get very drunk, Mademoiselle."

"Just don't pass out on me. You're too big for me to drag back to the car."

"Adam once told me, 'You are becoming a royal pain in my arse, Rene.'" It sounds very funny with my accent and I laugh. "Do you know that I fainted when Mathilde was born? They said it was very funny, like a mountain crashing to the floor."

"I think we should get you into the car while we decide what to do. It's a little cold out here. Can you stand?"

I put my glasses on and try to get up. I can stand but I am not very steady. It is shock, no? I look down at him, so peaceful, a small hole in his temple, nothing more. I look up to the trees; the raven is gone. There is a tribe somewhere which believes that the raven takes the souls of the dead to the next world...

"Come on, Doctor. We can't stay out here."

I let her take my arm and guide me back down the path. One knee tries to collapse but I do not fall. And I am very dizzy.

"They are so small when they are born, you know? So helpless..."

"Yes, Doctor. Try to concentrate."

We go back to the lane. I see only Croft's car. 

"How did you find me?"

"I followed you. I lost you a couple of times but you stayed on the same road. I got ahead of you and picked you up again."

"Then it was you in that blue car? But it turned off. How did you find me again?"

"What blue car? I have a white one."

I laugh. It is all so absurd... 

She guides me past Croft's car and then I see hers, parked where the lane curves a little. When we reach it, she opens the back door and I get in. It is a relief and I lean my head back and close my eyes. A great weariness comes over me. 

I see his face screaming in terror. It becomes Rodrig's face - then it is Adam. My hands are covered with blood... Somewhere I hear the raven screeching his laughter.

****

When I open my eyes, I am lying in a bed. I do not have my glasses. Someone sits beside me, a man.

"That's better. You're getting a little old for the rough stuff, Rene."

Pierre Lamartine? 

"You're in your room at the clinic. Feeling any better?"

The pain in my head is very bad and I am going to be sick. 

"Mademoiselle Thomas brought you here. She didn't give me the details but said you'd had a severe emotional shock and someone seems to have tried to bash your brains in. I've stitched you up and there's a lot of swelling. And I still remember those broken ribs back in '93. I wrote that into your file myself. I don't wish to pry into your private affairs, old friend, but you appear to keep some very strange company."

I feel the bandage on my head; I want to sleep. I close my eyes and drift. He is speaking to me but I cannot understand what he is telling me. The raven comes to me. The snow is very deep; all is white. I stand beneath the tree and he laughs. He has come to take my soul to the next world but I do not wish to go. Croft shrieks at me - rage and hate and jealousy. Blood drips onto the snow and I am very cold. I sink to my knees and weep.

I wake in a cold sweat. It is dark and I need to be sick. There is an IV needle in my left hand. They have left a basin beside the bed and I use it and press the buzzer for the nurse. She comes, takes my pulse and removes the basin. Pierre comes in as she leaves. He sits in the chair beside the bed and leans forward, his forearms on his thighs.

"You worry me, Rene. Do you know how many times you have thrown up?"

"No." My voice is barely a whisper.

"We took an X-ray. You woke up but I doubt you remember; you weren't very lucid. The X-ray shows no skull fracture, which is remarkable since you were hit very hard, I would think. I won't ask you how it happened. But there is still the possibility of bleeding into the brain, of course. We shall have to watch you closely. You're going nowhere until I approve it. All right?"

It is not all right but it would seem that I have no choice.

He does not wait for a reply. "What do you remember?" No, Pierre. Do not ask me this. I do not wish to remember. 

"May I have a cigarette?"

"You know very well how I feel about that."

"I wish to go home."

"Absolutely not. And if I have to lock you in, I will. We've been colleagues for a long time, Rene, but we are also friends, _non_? You are in luck. I am the resident physician in charge this week and I have appointed myself your physician here. All right? Can you live with that?"

It is difficult to concentrate; I am drifting again. "Yes. Thank you."

"It means I've looked into your medical history. You don't react well to emotional trauma; there's a history of attempted suicide and a very serious breakdown, although that was a long time ago now. Still, I have to take it into account. You've been sleeping but it's been very disturbed. I can't give you a sedative because it would mask any brain damage and the trauma appears to be more than just a very bad bump on the head, although Mademoiselle Thomas declined to tell me what you had been hit with. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No, I cannot. I am sorry, Pierre. Please do not ask me."

"Then I suggest you start seeing your therapist again. You've been avoiding her for some time, cancelling appointments. She'll be in to see you tomorrow and you can work something out between you. Are you feeling dizzy now?"

"Yes."

"Nauseous?"

"A little."

"I've given you Gravol in that IV. That should improve soon. They will look in on you every two hours." He stands and pats my shoulder. "And now, _mon ami_, I am going to bed. They have orders to fetch me if anything goes wrong."

****

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

I passed a very bad night and I am very tired. They have awakened me every two hours to be sure that I am all right. I am no longer so dizzy - so long as I am lying down. It would seem that I shall be confined to this bed for a little while. My mind... that is another matter. The nurse came to check me. She has taken out the IV and changed the dressing. The male aide has been in to help me to the bathroom and to wash and shave me; I did not want breakfast. What I really want, of course, is a cigarette but Pierre is adamant. Pierre came to say that he wishes to keep me here for at least two or three days but I cannot stay. There is still Eddie to think of. Yet it seems that I have no choice today, at least, and I am grateful to rest. He will make good his threat to lock the door and in any case, I can barely raise my head. 

Pierre thinks that I may have a concussion but he worries more about my state of mind. I have asked that he arrange a medical leave for me and he has agreed. He will see my patients; I shall return the favour some day. And I have promised to see Leah Kwan regularly again; I have missed those lovely legs! She will come to see me this afternoon, he said. 

Mlle Thomas is waiting to see me. I do not wish to be seen in a hospital gown and since Pierre will not allow me to leave my bed, he has lent me a fresh shirt. It would seem that mine is soaked in blood. And that old black pull will likely have to be burned at last. The aide has helped me into the shirt and I feel more comfortable. When I am ready, comfortably propped on the pillows and my glasses on, he leaves to fetch Mlle Thomas. 

She comes in looking very worried. She brings the chair to the bed and sits down. "How are you this morning, Doctor?"

"I am alive, I think. I have you to thank for that, perhaps. I have a very bad headache." That is an understatement. I do not feel at all well, in fact, but I will not stay here longer than I have to.

"I'm not surprised at the headache. Did they feed you breakfast?"

"I was not hungry."

She smiles. "Hospital food has never done it for me, either. Your doctor warned me not to let you have cigarettes." I smile. That is Pierre, damn him! "Doctor, there's something I should say. I apologize for my bad manners on Sunday. I've had a little time to think about it. I can't say I understand what happened yesterday but I'm willing to hear your side of it."

A twinge of pain makes me wince. "May I tell you later, Miss Thomas? I am not feeling up to it just now."

"Of course. Doctor Lamartine has asked me not to tire you. I heard what was said to Croft, you know... thank you for not telling him about the photographs. I know it doesn't matter now that he's dead, but it could have gone the other way. It was very brave."

"I could have done nothing else and it would not have stopped him from putting that bullet in my head. If you do not mind, I prefer not to talk of it for the moment."

She says nothing. I have no idea what she must be feeling. She saw me kill someone, yet she knows that he would have killed me and I do not think she faults me for saving my own life. But I did not need to do it. The killing rage... it is a terrible thing.

"You're very quiet, Doctor. You're not all right, are you? You only did what you had to do, you know."

I smile. "It changes nothing, Mademoiselle. I have still killed a man. That is what I shall live with."

"You had me very worried. When you passed out and I couldn't wake you, I was in a bit of a panic. You know who sent me to look for you, don't you?"

I sigh. "I can guess."

"Gabrieli himself." I nod and it hurts - I shall have to remember not to do that. Gabrieli. It is as I suspected. "I couldn't believe it. He demanded that I get to Croft's apartment immediately. Seems you couldn't be reached. I was supposed to get there before Croft did but I was a little late."

"I forgot to charge my cell phone. I really cannot get used to those things."

"How much does Gabrieli know?"

"About what?"

"About you."

I shrug. "I do not know."

She sighs. "Why don't I believe you? He seems to know an awful lot about everything."

"It is his job."

"He had a little chat with me first, made sure I understood that none of this is to get back to my father or Ben. He was very insistent, reminded me that my first loyalty was to him where Watcher business was concerned. He frightened me a little."

"But you followed orders."

"I saw no reason not to."

"And if you had seen a reason...?"

She snorts. "I'll wait until that happens."

And does she think it will not?

"He pumped me about you. What had you told me? Did I know why you had gone to Croft's apartment in the first place? I wasn't about to tell him what we talked about on Sunday. I just said that I really didn't know you very well."

A pain shoots through my head and I draw in a sharp breath.

She looks at me, a frown on her forehead. "Are you all right? Shall I call someone?"

I wave a hand at her. "No. Please go on. I must know."

She says nothing for a moment. "It'll wait if you need to rest. Can I get you anything?"

"A cigarette."

She laughs. "Besides that. How about some coffee, juice..."

"Some coffee, if they will permit me."

While she goes to find the coffee, it gives me time to think about what she has told me. Gabrieli was indeed watching out for me. And I am grateful. And yet I am not very happy that he has asked Mlle Thomas about me. I am not yet certain how she feels about me and it shows that he does not trust me, although that does not surprise me.

When she returns, she has a tray with juice, a croissant and a carafe of coffee with two cups. She places the tray on the table and pours the coffee. 

"Milk stirred in slowly, no sugar, I believe," she says. She has a good memory. She gives me the cup and sits down.

"M. Gabrieli told you that I was at Croft's apartment? Did he tell you how he knew this?"

She frowns. "No. And you didn't bother to tell me why you wanted to go there. But you told me there was proof of your activities with the Hunters - Croft liked to take photographs... I put two and two together. Was it a photograph you were looking for?"

I see no reason to hide it now that Gabrieli knows. And a little trust needs to be established, _non_? "A tape - a very damning tape, one which I should like no-one to see, especially not Adam."

"I don't doubt that for a moment. I think Ben would find it very hard to forgive you. Mostly for lying to him"

"_Ah, que vous avez raison, Mademoiselle_. You are very right. It is not the deed but the trust." 

"And just how did he know you were there?"

"He asked me to go. He telephoned me and asked me to find certain information."

She stares at me. "I'm a little confused. Surely you were looking for that tape. What information would he ask you to find?"

I shrug and sip my coffee. "Croft denounced Eddie to him and implied that there was evidence. I was looking for that evidence. _C'est tout_."

"Are you lying to me, Doctor? 

"Have you been to the apartment, Mademoiselle?"

"Don't change the subject."

"It is the same subject. There is no information on anyone at the apartment, although there are other... interesting items."

"You searched the whole place?"

I shrug. "I did not have the time."

"No, I'm sure you didn't. And why you? You told me yourself that Gabrieli has Internal Affairs agents working for him. Why not one of those? Croft could say nothing to them."

I say nothing. I am unsure how much to tell her. My meeting with M. Gabrieli is not something I wish to discuss. And he did, after all, order me to be quiet about it. Not that I have ever given it that much consideration.

She toys with her coffee cup. "He was most insistent that I report only to him, you know, not to my supervisor, and that I tell absolutely no-one of anything that happened yesterday."

I nod. "Indeed."

"This doesn't surprise you?"

"No, it does not. It concerns Adam most closely."

"Oh?"

"Miss Thomas, do you know what a shrine is?"

"A religious shrine? Of course."

I shake my head. "No, I am speaking of the activities of a stalker. He collects photographs of his idol, usually young women, pictures of them at home, at work, driving, shopping, doing everyday things. He collects objects from these women, things which prove to him that there is a relationship. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Yes, they use that idea on television sometimes."

"_Bon_. Then you know what I mean. M. Croft has one of these shrines in his apartment. He has been stalking Adam for a very long time."

She stares at me. "Oh, my God! What are you saying?"

"Precisely that. There is no gentle way to say this to you. M. Croft was in love with Adam - quite genuinely, I believe, although obsessively - and has been for many years. It was his fantasy that Adam was in love with him but was not free to declare that love. He believed Adam to be a homosexual who had not accepted it. It put in danger anyone with whom Adam had a friendship, a love affair, even a casual sexual liaison - if you will pardon me, Mademoiselle, but Adam has not been a monk, as I am sure you know - anyone. Women, Don Salzer, possibly, your father, myself. You. Do you understand?"

The look of horror on her face tears at me but it must be said - and better to hear it from myself than from M. Gabrieli, _non_?

"He was insane?"

"No." I take off my glasses and close my eyes for a moment. It is difficult to concentrate. She waits patiently for me. When I open them again, she nods at me to tell her what she needs to know. I do not think she will be pleased. "It is not very easy to believe perhaps, but he was not insane, certainly not in a legal sense, although I would class him perhaps as a sociopath, someone who does not behave in ways which meet the social good, you understand? He merely has this fantasy, but it is all-consuming; in most other ways, he was... functioning." And functioning very well, if the things he told me were at all true, and I suspect that they were. He knew too much and it was too accurate for him to be lying. And I am going to be spending a great deal of time in M. Gabrieli's company very soon, I believe, answering a great many questions. I cannot say that I look forward to it.

"And yet he was quite willing to kill you." Her voice is hard, angry. "Execution style. That hardly sounds sane to me, Doctor. It doesn't get more deliberate than that. I heard the hatred in his voice." She hesitates. She wants to ask me something; have I said something I should not? "Why me, Doctor?" she asks. "Why would I be in danger from Croft? I'm just a minor Watcher. Croft didn't know me at all."

Ah. Rene, you have tripped over your own toes. What is obvious to me has not yet made itself known to her. To me, her love for Adam is quite plain, yet to her... "No reason, Mademoiselle. I am sure you were quite safe."

"You have a way of making me think that you're not telling me everything, Doctor. But I'll accept that for now. Are you going to tell me that he held that same hatred for all of us?"

I drink some of the coffee, wishing desperately for a cigarette. "I think he hated me a little more than others. And he had reason; I was a serious threat to him in other ways, although I never knew it until a few days ago. M. Croft was very much more than he seemed. Please understand that everything I say to you about this is highly confidential. I tell you because it concerns Adam - and that concerns you. And Joseph - and Stephen. Gabrieli will not be pleased that I have told you without his express permission. May I trust you to be discreet?"

She nods slightly. She is deeply shocked, yet no more than was I. And she is certainly angry, whether with Croft or with me I cannot tell. "And this was why he wanted to kill you? Because he saw you as a rival?"

I sigh. It is becoming difficult to concentrate. "Yes... but more than this. It is not easy to explain. I do not know all of it myself. Indeed, perhaps I never will. And I do not concentrate well. Forgive me if I do not explain this clearly."

"Oh, you're explaining it very well. You're saying that we were all in danger from this man, me, my father... How could this happen?"

"Because he was invisible. No-one really saw him; they saw only a timid man who hid in his office behind his account books. He was not a pleasant man and they left him alone. It was what he wished. It served him very well."

"That's not all you know, is it?"

I begin to drift again. I concentrate only with difficulty and I do not wish to pursue this. I know things now that no-one else knows - save perhaps Adam. I smile at the thought. Adam. How much do you know about us, _mon ami_? You know more about us than we know about ourselves, I think. I must close my eyes for just a moment. Pierre is right to keep me here, although I cannot say if it is my injured head or my injured mind that worries him more. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again, see him with my own gun pointed at my head, the silencer screwed into the barrel, looking somehow the more deadly for that. Always the images are the same - the snow, the raven, the blood - stark images of black, white... and red... 

"Doctor?" 

She is standing, my coffee cup in her hand. "You faded on me there. I can understand why Dr. Lamartine wants to keep you here. I should go."

"Yes... I am sorry..."

****

"Rene?" Quiet voice, images of falling water, silver rain... someone laughing. Martine? I have missed you... _je t'aime, cherie_...

"Rene." A hand shakes me and I open my eyes. Leah Kwan's gentle face smiles at me. "Hello, old friend. I'll go away if you wish."

I blink. The light bothers my eyes. "No, it's all right." 

I am glad she is here. There is no-one I can speak to the same way I speak with her, not even Pere Jean. 

"Good. Don't let me wear you out."

Leah is a remarkable lady and I am very lucky to have her as my therapist. It was a difficult decision since we would need to speak of very strange things. But Leah has seen many strange things in her life. I fumble for my glasses. She hands them to me and I put them on. "I am pleased to see you."

"But you would rather see a package of cigarettes right now, I think."

I laugh a little. It is the truth. 

She lifts the bandage and inspects the wound, then sits beside me. "That's very bad. You're very lucky, Rene. There appears to be no brain damage but you know that it sometimes shows up later. I hope you're not planning to leave before you're ready?"

I smile. She knows me very well. "I have things to take care of. Some very serious things."

"Can others not do this for you?" she asks. She leans her chin on her hand and looks at me most earnestly. She tells me, I think, that I should do this but she will not demand it. She never demands anything of me and yet I seem always to do it her way. I wish I had the same effect on Adam.

"I think not, Leah. I would not ask it of them."

She says nothing. She knows my history all too well; she has been my therapist for a long time. She knows what I have done and what I will do if I must.

"What happened yesterday?" she asks.

"I killed a man," I say without hesitation. It is like a knife to my belly and my voice is harsh; the pain screams inside me.

She does not reply right away. She is watching me, judging how I really feel. She is a master. "And do you feel that you should be punished for this?"

It is like an arrow that finds its target. I can say nothing and turn my head away.

"Look at me, Rene."

She waits and I turn back to her. There is great compassion in her face. Her own life was one of sorrow and struggle before coming to France. When the Red Guard interned her and her family in a 're-education' labour camp, life became... fragile. She spoke to me of it years ago when I was asked to take her as my therapist. I had refused all others after Sean died. I would trust no-one else. When they told me that a Chinese woman, a refugee who had escaped from China and stowed away on a fish boat out of Shanghai, had come to work at the clinic, I did not know what to think. What could she possibly know that could be of use to us? How little I understood. I needed a therapist, they said; she was willing to take me on. I was scornful and arrogant. She asked to speak to me. Imagine how I felt, all six feet two and eighty-five kilos of me sitting before this tiny, delicate woman with the perfect cheekbones and the kindest eyes I ever saw. And she spoke to me of such dreadful things, of how they beat her father to death because he was too ill to work, merely because he was an intellectual, an expert on French art. It had been declared 'decadent'. M. Kwan had loved all things French and had studied painting in Paris as a young man. For this error, he died. They had been beaten and starved, forced to work long hours. They were... expendable.

And did I think that she had been unwilling to kill to escape? She had killed a guard with a garden hoe and taken her terrified mother and young brother across flooded rice paddies in the dead of night. Her mother had been too weak to go on and begged to be left at the side of the road to give her daughter a better chance. She never saw her mother or her brother again. She still does not know what became of them. And as I listened to this gentle soul speaking to me of these things, I saw that it was possible to see such things and do such things and still be a decent human being. If it was possible for this tiny creature... I still do not know if she saw my file before speaking to me and I have never asked.

And when she had told me these things she asked me if I thought she should be punished for killing a man. I told her that I did not.

"But I did kill a man, Rene," she said. "I will live with this for the rest of my life. He was a human being."

"He was evil,"I protested. "He deserved it."

"Don't be so naive! He had a wife and family; I know because he spoke to us of them, showed us pictures. Do you think he didn't love them?"

"Then I don't understand."

"You try to make everything black and white. It isn't. And it never will be. You do what you must do. And you live with it. Do you know what I am saying to you?"

And perhaps for the first time, I saw that it was not a matter of right or wrong, good or evil, but of humanity, my own, that of others. She did not know what I had done but she saw something in me and gave me what I needed. It did not take the pain away; it never does this. But she told me how to live in spite of it. I told them I would accept her as my therapist and I have never regretted this.

And now she asks me the same question.

She regards me with sadness. "Why have you cancelled your appointments with me? It's been nearly four months."

I do not insult her by claiming that I have been busy. Why have I not seen her? Did I think all was going well? I wanted to think so. Our own therapy is a requirement and it is a sensible one. It is not a matter of a life that is going well; it is a matter of attention to duty, something I do as much for my patients as for myself. And why have I not done this?

"Tell me if you see a pattern, Rene - you cancel appointments, you work too hard, you smoke too much, you drink more than you should, you have promiscuous sexual habits..." I listen to these words, in perfect French, come out of that exquisite mouth and I would laugh if it were not so serious. "Do you see a pattern?"

"I had not realized..."

She smiles. "I know. And now there is a crisis, I think, no? It's time to consider these things. Pierre tells me that you were a little delirious when Miss Thomas brought you in. Do you think you're having a relapse?"

"Stress Disorder?"

She nods. "Of course. It has been fifteen years. The time frame is right."

I had not considered it. And I do not wish to think about that, either. "Perhaps."

"Tell me about yesterday."

No, please. I do not wish to go back there. Not even with Leah holding my hand...

"What is it? You were quick enough to tell me that you killed a man. Obviously, this is not what eats at you the most. There is something more, something even deeper."

And I see him again, the gun aimed at my head, the raven, the snow, the blood... I close my eyes. I do not wish to look at her.

Her voice comes to me as through fog, soft, distant. "Rene." The raven shrieks and flaps his wings for flight. So much blood on the snow... I am afraid.

"Rene." It fades but the fear remains. "What do you see? Tell me the images in your mind."

I open my eyes, yet still I cannot face her. "Snow, blood... a raven."

"What do these things represent to you? Just let your mind associate."

"Snow... purity... cleanliness... cold... unforgiving... "

She leans closer. "I can barely hear you, Rene. And the blood?"

"The blood... guilt. There is so much guilt. The raven... not sure. He takes my soul...perhaps to hell."

"And I ask you again. Do you believe that you should be punished for what you did?'

I smile at this. It is quite plain, _non_? Even to me. "Yes."

"Then perhaps you should be punished. Settle your affairs, make provision for Mathilde, say your good-byes and turn yourself in to the Council. You are guilty, after all. A quick bullet to the brain and it is over."

It is like cold water down my spine. It is several moments before I can reply. "I have not told you what happened."

She shrugs. "I don't need the details, Rene. Your pain is obvious. Don't tell me unless you wish to."

I look at her. She sits there, elegant even at fifty-something, serene in that exquisitely Oriental way. She was very beautiful once, I think. Her beauty is still there, transformed by a wisdom I can perhaps never reach. And she still has wonderful legs...

"Rene, what are you thinking about?"

I smile. "About you."

"Try to concentrate. I know it's difficult but I also know that you can do it. You're a decent man but there has been a shock, a severe one, and I am not going to be easy on you. This involves your _life,_ Rene, your continued existence. We will get nowhere until you make a decision as to how that life will go. Don't deny what you did, yet don't let guilt cloud your judgement. And if they come for you, accept it with dignity. Now, what do you wish to tell me?"

'Accept it with dignity?' Is there dignity in being arrested for murder and shot? "I should like a cigarette. Perhaps you could ask Pierre..."

"I'll speak to Pierre. You have more than enough stress to deal with without that."

I avoid the inevitable. My own patients do this with me. Get hold of yourself, Rene; she does not judge you. "It was supposed to be my execution," I say. I can barely hear myself. "It has all come up again. I thought it put to rest. He denounced me to David Gabrieli, the Regional Director. M. Gabrieli had a little talk with me... now he knows."

"And this troubles you greatly." It is a statement. And it makes me think.

"Yes. It troubles me. He holds my life in his hands and I do not know that I can trust him. Perhaps so long as no-one knew, I thought it not real, without consequence. It has been so long; I thought I was safe."

"And this man?"

Where do I begin? "This man... he was not what we thought. A very dangerous man, hiding behind a mask. He told me things..." Ah, the things he told me. "When M. Gabrieli did not arrest me, Croft took matters into his own hands. He forced me to drive to the place of my own execution."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Feel? Terrified, angry... I wanted to kill him, reach across the seat and ram the gun down his throat. How did I feel? "I would rather not remember."

She nods. "It's all right. Tell me what you can."

And I find that I do not remember very clearly after that. I cannot remember what was said, only the coldness of his voice... and that I ceased to be afraid of him. And something else...

"What are you thinking, Rene?"

"I am thinking that part of me wanted to die, God help me. Part of my mind tried to compose itself, wanted him to pull that trigger, accepted it."

"Because you wanted really to die? Are you telling me that you were suicidal? Your mother was a suicide and you, yourself. made a very serious attempt. Are you afraid that that urge is still there?"

"Perhaps. I had not considered it." Had I wanted to die? When Leah asks me these questions, it is not because she wishes to know the answer but because she wishes _me_ to know it. And do I? For the moment, I wish only to sleep. "No, I do not believe that I did want to die."

"Good. Then perhaps your mind saw it as acceptance of just punishment, not as a means to die. It is not the same thing. I ask you for the last time. Do you think you should be punished for what you have done?"

"Do I deserve it? Yes. Oh, yes."

"That is not what I asked. Do you wish it?"

"I don't know."

"And this, I think is the truth. You must decide. It is the indecision which tears you apart. If you want to die, then get on with it; if you wish to live... You have much to live for. And you must decide once and for all so that you can live your life... or lay it down as you see fit. The sin will never erase itself. It will always be there. Do you sacrifice yourself to it or do you set it aside and live? For you the matter is quite simple; the crime is obvious. A man put a gun to your head; you killed him. Was it necessary?"

"No. It was not necessary. I was in a rage."

"And you are surprised at this? He wanted you dead, and he was willing to do it coldly and deliberately. I would be more concerned for you if you had not felt rage. You ask too much of yourself, Rene. How did you receive your injury?"

"He struck me with a stone, more than once."

"And now you condemn yourself for feeling rage? Is this sensible? Your new Director now has the power to have you executed as he sees fit; a man holds you at gunpoint, forces you to drive to your own death, smashes your skull with a stone... It would seem that you have difficulty forgiving yourself for being human, Rene."

I can say nothing. She offers me a way out; I need only decide to take it. Why am I so reluctant?

She stands up. "I have put you through enough for today. I want you on indefinite leave - I will certify that it is for nervous exhaustion. And I will help Pierre with your patients. I'm putting you on Zoloft. It will take about three weeks to take full effect. If Pierre agrees, I will prescribe a sedative in the meantime to help you sleep. You must rest. Whatever else it is you have to do, please don't try to do it all by yourself. You could very well suffer a complete collapse."

"And you do not wish to pick up the pieces."

She pats my hand. "No, old friend, I do not. I am quite serious. If you decide to live, you must put the idea of punishment to rest. But don't do it for others, not even for that lovely daughter of yours. Do it because you want to live. Do you understand?" I will speak to Pierre about the cigarettes but I already knowwhat he will say." She chuckles. "I will have him start you on the Zoloft and something to keep your mind quiet to allow you some rest now. All right? And, Rene... white is also innocence, black is the quiet night that heals the mind and red is passion, the spice of life. It is all a matter of perspective."

When she is gone, the weariness settles over me again. Yet the weariness is not in my body. Adam sometimes speaks of a weariness of the soul. It would seem that my soul is weary indeed.

****

Chapter 15

Friday, November 29

It is a pleasant room, almost a second home. It was assigned to me when I was a resident all those years ago and it has become almost a refuge, a place of peace. I still use it when it is my turn as resident physician, one week every two months. My desk I found at the _Marche aux Puces_ when I was a poor student and it has become familiar to me, comforting. I studied here far into the night on many occasions. 

And now it is the retreat of a grown man. The great leather chair is my pride and joy, leather-bound books in solid cases, photographs of Mathilde and Nikki, a nice one of Martine, a few old friends, one of Sean and myself taken when I received my degree. If I cannot be in my own bed or in Martine's arms, then it is where I feel most at ease. It would seem that I think often of Martine these days.

When I am in residence, the bed can become a sofa and the room becomes a little sitting room, even a consulting room. And now once again, it is a refuge. Through the window, the morning woods are quiet, still in the winter air. It is a good place.

Pierre comes in looking pleased. He sits beside me, forearms on his thighs - it is his favourite pose, I think - smiling.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"Much better, thank you."

"You passed a good night, yes? Better than the last two, I think." he asks.

I am barely awake but my head does not hurt so much, for which I am most certainly grateful. "Yes, I passed a very good night. What did you give me?"

"Propranolol. It works well for anxiety and helps you sleep. Only a modest amount for now. But it had been forty-eight hours and it seemed safe to give you something."

"I am drowsy still."

"Yes, I know. But I'd rather have you drowsy than bouncing off the walls driving me insane asking for cigarettes or insisting that I release you. I have called Nikki. She's worried but I told her that you were doing fine. She believes that you were in a minor car accident. And I told her that you would be spending time at home. I understand it is your birthday tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? _Oh, mon Dieu._ I had forgotten."

"I'd like you to stay for another day or so; I feel certain that there is a concussion. But I won't force you, either. You know what is involved and what you would be risking by over-exerting yourself. You need rest."

Indeed, I know only too well. And yet I cannot lie here like a lazy worm while Eddie sits in the abbey and wonders why I have not contacted him. He knows where I live, I am sure. I should not want him going to my home. 

"I have no choice but to leave, _mon ami_. There is some business which will not wait for me while I take naps like an old man."

He chuckles. "You will not live to be an old man if you push it too hard. I am going to let you get up today, get dressed. You may go to the physicians' lounge and smoke there, if you feel up to it. My little concession. Perhaps it will convince you to stay for another day."

"And perhaps I can have Mlle Thomas bring my car from Paris."

"Only if you don't intend to drive. You are on medication and I can't yet be sure that you won't become dizzy or even pass out under stress. All right?"

I know this to be the truth. He speaks out of his concern for me and out of his kindness, for Pierre is a kind man above all. I smile at him through the haze. "I shall behave myself."

"Good. If you feel up to it, you may take your breakfast in the lounge. I should like to see how you manage when you are up and about. If there is any sign of dizziness, you are to come back to bed immediately and let me know. Understood?"

"Absolutely. Thank you."

When he is gone, I find that I am not anxious to be up. But I need a cigarette and it is really quite generous. Personally, I would not have allowed it. Perhaps Leah has asked him to do this. She came yesterday but only spoke of ordinary things, of Mathilde and Nikki. She asks often after Martine; I believe she would like to see me married and settled down. Perhaps she is not so wrong but what can I offer Martine now? 'If they come for you...' Until a week ago, it was not even in my mind and now... now it is all I can think of. It will be some time before I can breathe easily again, I think. No, it is not a time to consider marriage.

The aide knocks and asks if I need him this morning. I tell him that I believe that I can see to myself and he leaves. He was a sailor in the French navy and finds this job very much to his liking. We are glad to have him. Sean established a good staff here. He paid them well and the practice has carried on. It would be a good place for Adam if it should come down to it. I wish he could see that, but I shall not push him. I have begun once again to wonder what has become of my star patient - my only patient for now, it would seem. I doubt that he would consent to see anyone else. I have heard nothing more and I am becoming anxious for him. 

I lie here, my eyes closed, for a little longer until I feel a little more awake, then I raise myself to a sitting position. I am lightheaded but it does not hurt so much as it did only yesterday. I swing my legs out of bed. I am dizzy but it is no worse than for anyone who has been lying down for more than two days, _non_? Perhaps it is not so bad as Pierre thinks. When the dizziness clears, I stand - carefully. _Aiyiyi!_ My head feels as if it has hit the ceiling! But it subsides momentarily... Ah, not so bad. In the little bathroom, I get a shock - my face in the mirror! _Oh, mon Dieu!_ I look terrible! And that bandage... No wonder Pierre wants to keep me here. I would frighten little children and dogs looking like this! No doubt Adam will find it endlessly amusing. Ah... and what do I tell him? I shall have to think of something before I see him again.

I am able to see to my needs, although it takes me a while. I feel better for a good wash but a shower would have been very welcome. I have to sit for a moment before dressing myself, but the thought of a cigarette helps me finish. They have not allowed me my shoes, I notice. Ah, Pierre, how little you trust me, _mon ami._ And perhaps it is just as well. There is a pair of slippers in my small wardrobe from last winter. I find them and put them on. And then I go in search of tobacco.

The lounge is very pleasant, in a converted parlour of the old mansion, small but intimate. Sean believed that his staff worked better if they did not feel that they were in an institution along with the patients. There is even a young lady who waits on us. Apparently, she has been told to expect me. When I go in and find my favourite armchair, she comes immediately with a package of cigarettes - my own brand! - and a clean ashtray.

"Bonjour, Doctor Galbon. How are you this morning? We have been worried."

I take the cigarettes from her; my eagerness is quite pathetic! "Merci, Mademoiselle Chevolleau. You are looking very pretty this morning. That is a new dress, yes?"

"You always notice, Doctor. I shall bring your breakfast when you are ready. Would you like it now?"

"Perhaps in a few moments." I hold up a cigarette. "I have something to take care of first."

She laughs and leaves me to my little ritual. I know that she is also a smoker, though perhaps not so dedicated as I. There are only three of us who smoke in here and this is our little corner, guarded most jealously as our little domain. It is by the window, a most coveted spot. I light the cigarette and the first taste is heaven. I can already hear my nerves quieting. I am sure my _'petites cellules grises_' are most grateful and I can almost feel my headache receding as I relax and enjoy for the first time in over two days. 

The morning newspaper is on the side table along with the latest copy of Paris Match, though no-one will admit to having an _abonnement_ to the thing. It comes regularly, sits there, becomes dog-eared as if by magic and yet no-one ever reads it! Mais, certainement, it is very amusing. And I am avoiding thinking the things I need most urgently to think about. 

Mademoiselle Chevolleau returns but it is not with my breakfast. She tells me only that Pierre wishes to see me immediately in his office. I thank her, take a last drag on the cigarette and stub it out. _Merde!_ I pocket the cigarette package and go to his office. His door is closed, which is unusual. I knock and he calls to me to enter. I open the door and am surprised by what I see. My stomach tightens.

Pierre beckons to me. "Come in, please, Rene. Sit down."

David Gabrieli is sitting in Pierre's best arm chair. He turns torward me as I go in. "Doctor. I'm glad to see you're up and about." His tone is... civil. That, I am certain, is for Pierre's benefit. I doubt that what he feels toward me is very civil at the moment.

And my headache has returned. "Good morning."

Pierre looks a little uncertain how to proceed. He does not want his patient upset and he can hardly miss the tension in the air. "Rene, M. Gabrieli wishes to speak with you privately. You may use my office." He stands up and comes around the desk. Before he leaves, he turns to Gabrieli. "Monsieur, I realize that your business is urgent, but I must insist that you do not tire my patient. I will return in fifteen minutes at most; I can grant you no more than that."

Gabrieli nods. "Of course. I'll be as brief as possible."

Pierre inclines his head graciously and leaves me alone with my displeased superior. I lower myself into the other arm chair. Gabrieli crosses his legs and folds his hands over his stomach. He regards me with a look I can only describe as scornful, which is perhaps better than anger.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Doctor. I gave you an assignment I was sure you of all people had the intelligence to handle and you bungled it. 

Ah, I was wrong. He is also angry. It is in his voice. "I can only apologize, Monsieur." I can hardly say that I hope no damage has been done.

"You have landed me in a very difficult position. Miss Thomas has filled me in on what happened." My hand goes automatically for my cigarettes before I remember where I am. "You can begin by telling me what happened on Tuesday." 

"May I assume that you have been to M. Croft's apartment?"

He nods. "You may."

"Then you have seen what was there. I did not get farther than that myself before... before I was interrupted."

"You found nothing, then."

The diary in the drawer springs to mind. He will have found it, _non_? And he will assume that I found it also. If I fail to mention it... "There was a diary, in the little drawer under the poster. I did not get a chance to look at it. It was in my hand when M. Croft found me."

"I've read it. It was mostly a paean to the virtues of our Mr. Pierson, some of it quite explicit."

And so much more than this, I think. M. Croft did 'favours' for people, for Adam; it would be in there. How much of what Croft told me in the car is in that little book also, I wonder? If he wishes to tell me, he will do so. To ask would be... inappropriate. "I found no tapes, Monsieur. I was able to search the bedroom but not thoroughly. M. Croft himself assumed that I had come for it and told me that he would never keep such a thing there. It is in keeping with his personality."

"Do you have any suggestions as to where it might be?"

I shrug. "I have not had time to give it any thought. It could be anywhere - a safety deposit box, perhaps."

"A chronicle is mentioned. Do you have any idea what that's about?"

I hesitate, take off my glasses and rub my eyes. This is something which I would prefer that he not know, yet Croft told me that the chronicle and my tape were in the same place. Better perhaps that Gabrieli find it. But I cannot bring myself to tell him - it belongs to Adam. "No, Monsieur, I do not." And it would seem that I am indeed the liar Miss Thomas thinks me to be. Yet anyone who tells me he does not lie is lying; it is an interesting truth. And I am already tiring. I put my glasses back on; thank God Pierre has told him only fifteen minutes.

"I hope you at least understand how serious this appears to be, Doctor. What did he tell you in the car? I presume he told you _something_."

"Oh, yes. He told me a great deal. And much of it was... fantastic? And yet I think also that it was the truth." A twinge of pain makes me wince. I wait a moment before proceeding. "It was very disordered. And yet I think he was what he said that he was."

He does not answer right away. Perhaps he is considering doing this some other time? I can only hope. And I need a cigarette, as usual. He sighs. "I'm sorry to push you, Doctor, but I must know. I'm sure you can appreciate that."

I nod. It is quite true. "I am perhaps even more aware of that than you, Monsieur. And yet it cannot be told in a few minutes. I am not even sure where to begin. You will forgive me; I am not thinking clearly and the memory is not pleasant."

"I just want some idea of what I'm dealing with. If I am to make this man disappear, I need to know how deep he was into it, do you understand?"

"Oui, Monsieur. I understand very well." And I do. I would not wish to be in his position. "It would seem that M. Croft was an _eminence grise._ And has been for a long time. He told me of pulling strings as high up as the Regional Director himself, arranging appointments, 'transfers' - disappearances. He did not create the Hunters, yet he financed them, likely through embezzlement, investing the money... He did 'favours'; I would think that a little blackmail was involved on occasion. He did not give me names and details; he merely bragged of his power to control. And of his hatred for myself, of course. I doubt sincerely that I was the only one."

"He was quite talkative, in other words. Why was that, do you think?"

I shrug. "His kind need to brag, to tell others of their exploits, their power. What is the use of power when no-one knows? He had to stay quiet, of course, or it would be over. He wanted their fear - it is always an element of this kind of power over others - yet he was denied it. He contented himself with manipulating - and perhaps destroying - in secret."

"And yet he told you."

"I was not going to live to tell others. He could afford to indulge himself."

"And he very nearly succeeded in that. You're a very lucky man. Miss Thomas did an excellent job. But I needed him alive."

I sigh. "Yes, I am aware of that."

"Do you have any fucking idea how badly you have screwed things up, Doctor? Unless the man kept records, and unless we find them first..." He shakes his head and rubs his brow with his fingers. "And if the Council ever finds out what happened to him... need I say more? I'm not sure I could save your sorry ass. Hell, I'm not even sure I'd want to."

"I can write up a report on what he told me, as much as I can remember."

"You're damned right you will! If you were in better health, I'd have you do it right here and now. As it is, I'll send someone I trust as soon as you're done. I'd like you to stay invisible for a while, not show your face at HQ. Do you think you can manage that? Write it by hand - I don't want it on anybody's hard drive. And don't, for God's sake, make copies."

He thinks me a fool. I am getting too old for this. "Of course."

"As a matter of fact, I want you to stay right here until this has been taken care of. You're out of the way and there's someone keeping an eye on you. Dr. Lamartine tells me he's put you on medical leave. There'll be a memo to personnel to keep your pay in order and that will stand as a reason for keeping you out of sight if we need one. Tomorrow, I'm sending Miss Thomas to fetch you and the two of you can decide how you want to solve that other little problem of ours."

"I am not sure that Pierre... Dr. Lamartine..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what Dr. Lamartine thinks. If this isn't cleared up, his patient is likely to be six feet under in any case. Eddie Brill can blow us all out of the water and the matter is too delicate to leave to anyone but those already directly involved. And this time, I expect you not to screw it up. I have something for you."

He takes an envelope out of the pocket of his overcoat and hands it to me. I open it. In it, there is an American passport and a sum of money. I do not count it. A folder contains a plane ticket for New York on the evening flight from Charles de Gaulle airport. The name on the passport and the ticket is Paul Johnson. I open it. Inside is Eddie's photograph, a fairly recent one from updated personnel files. It is a very good forgery. And I doubt that the ticket is genuine. The HQ Documents Department has some very skillful people.

I close the passport and replace it in the envelope. "How are you going to get this to M. Brill?"

"I do hope you're joking, Doctor. That is entirely up to you but I would suggest you hand it to him yourself."

I stare at him. Of course he would expect me to arrange it. How foolish of me. I notice that my hand shakes as it holds the envelope; no doubt he sees it as well as I.

He folds his hands over his stomach again. "The real Paul Johnson has been dead for a couple of years, but his records are still on file. If that passport should fall into the wrong hands, it will look genuine." He pauses and looks sternly at me. "But I don't expect it to fall into the wrong hands. When the job is done, destroy it."

I am horrified. "Monsieur, I did not sign on to be a _nettoyeur _- a cleaner! I must object."

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind. Croft must have really rattled your brains. You're not telling me that you were going to let our Mr. Brill go after telling me you were going to kill him, are you? You're a lot smarter than that and I expect you to deal with your own mess, Doctor. And try not to get yourself murdered this time. Oh, one more thing. For your information, the cconcierge in Croft's apartment house has been dealt with so you don't have to worry about her testifying against you." He chuckles. "She was really looking forward to it. I don't know what you sait to piss her off but piss her off but you did. All taken of."

He stands up just as Pierre comes in.

Gabrieli looks at Pierre and nods. "I was just leaving, Doctor. Thank you for the use of your office."

When he has left, Pierre puts a hand on my shoulder. I find I am trembling a little. "Are you all right? I shouldn't have let you do this."

"It's all right. It was... necessary."

"I want you back to bed. Mademoiselle Chevolleau will bring your breakfast."

"No, I wish to stay up."

"I wasn't asking what you wanted to do, Rene; it was an order from your physician."

I get out of the chair - and my head seems to hit the ceiling again, of course. He is most likely right; I shall need to lie down again. If I am to carry out M. Gabrieli's orders... and I am to have another visit from Mlle Thomas. It will be a birthday I shall not forget for a while, I think.

I take my medication and sleep the rest of the morning. I am surprised when the nurse puts a nicotine patch on my arm; as I said, Pierre is a kind man. In the afternoon, Leah comes to see me. We talk of M. Gabrieli's visit and how I feel about what is to happen. 

"Must you do this, Rene?" she asks me gently. She is very concerned for me, and she has reason. I am a little unnerved myself.

"It is right that I do this myself, Leah. I cannot ask this of others."

"If you give him the passport and the money, he will be gone from your life. Can you not leave it at that? It is certainly not a matter of justice; your own hands are not clean."

She asks me only what I have asked myself. I believe I know the answer. I take my glasses off and rub my forehead. The headache has become very bad again. Yet I think it is more the pain of my overworked conscience than from the lump on my skull. She waits patiently for me to compose myself.

"It is no longer just my own life, as I thought. He does not yet know about Croft but when he does, he will no longer fear reprisal. He has information which he would be most happy to sell to those who might be interested - and there are many of those, I am quite sure, those who would depose Gabrieli to begin with. The Organization would return to a state of corruption. My own continued safety and that of my family is only a minor consideration. I must do this." I put my glasses back on and look at her. She is sad for me but she understands. "And I do not do this lightly. But I took this path many years ago, Leah; now I must follow it. I have no choice."

She sighs and stands up. "Then I will be here for you when it is done." She smiles and pats my hand. "I shall not tell you to go with God. I doubt He would approve."

****

Saturday, November 30

Today I am fifty-four years old. And this is not exactly where I had intended to be for the occasion. I have called Nikki and spoken to Mathilde. Perhaps I shall see them today but I have not promised. It is necessary to go to Reims, although the thought does not fill me with pleasant anticipation. I woke early and was pleased to find that I felt better. Sleeping well for two nights has been good for me; I should make a habit of it. The nicotine patch has probably helped but it has not cured me of wanting the real thing. I have just had my breakfast in the physicians' lounge; Mademoiselle Chevolleau brought me a croissant with a candle in it. I have no idea who told her that it was my birthday. She sang "_Bonne F _


End file.
